


Don't You Worry Child

by WhoStarLocked



Series: I Will Be [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Aftermath, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anger, Angst and Feels, Assassination Plot(s), Assault, Bad Parenting, Beating, Birthday, Birthday Presents, Birthday Sex, Birthday Smut, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Brotherly Love, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Clarus Amicitia's Wife, Coercion, Concerned Clarus Amicitia, Cor Leonis Needs a Hug, Cor Leonis' Birthday, Cutting, Depressed Cor Leonis, Depression, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Dubious Science, Explicit Sexual Content, Fear, Gang Rape, Graphic Description, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt Cor Leonis, Illnesses, Injury, King Regis Lucis Caelum, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Mentioned Aulea Lucis Caelum, Mentioned Gladiolus Amicitia, Minor Character Death, Mors Lucis Caelum Being an Asshole, Multi, Needles, Oblivious Regis Lucis Caelum, Original Character Death(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paedophile Mors Lucis Caelum, Paedophilia, Panic, Panic Attacks, Parent Clarus Amicitia, Poor Cor Leonis, Protective Cid Sophiar, Protective Clarus Amicitia, Protective Regis Lucis Caelum, Protective Weskham Armaugh, Protectiveness, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Recovery, Revenge, Sad Cor Leonis, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Assault, Sexual Coercion, Suicidal Thoughts, Supportive Clarus Amicitia, Terminal Illnesses, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Training, Underage Drinking, Underage Rape/Non-con, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence, Vomiting, Worry, Young Cor Leonis, cid sophiar mentioned, discovery of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:27:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23868262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoStarLocked/pseuds/WhoStarLocked
Summary: “Be careful around my father, okay?”Cor rolls his eyes at Regis, because really?“I’m sure I can manage.”Cor has been assigned as king Mors' personal Crownsguard, but he never thought it would entail this.
Relationships: Clarus Amicitia & Cor Leonis, Clarus Amicitia & Cor Leonis & Regis Lucis Caelum, Clarus Amicitia & Regis Lucis Caelum, Clarus Amicitia & Weskham Armaugh & Cor Leonis & Regis Lucis Caelum & Cid Sophiar, Cor Leonis & Cid Sophiar, Cor Leonis & Regis Lucis Caelum, Cor Leonis/Mors Lucis Caelum, Cor Leonis/Original Male Character(s), Weskham Armaugh & Cor Leonis
Series: I Will Be [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860319
Comments: 13
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheDarkestDandelion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkestDandelion/gifts).



> TW: graphic depiction of underage rape!!!!! Please don't read if you don't like!
> 
> Writing this for TheDarkestDandelion because they asked for Cor angst which didn't involve baby Prom as part of a gift exchange we're doing. Sorry guys.

“Be careful around my father, okay?” 

Cor rolls his eyes at Regis, because _really?_

“I’m sure I can manage.” He tells Regis, and he means it. He may be the king, but it’s not like he’s a threat. And to Cor, who the king had _demanded_ be assigned his personal guard? He does feel slightly guilty about that, because that is more than likely due to the rumours that he defeated Gilgamesh, and that isn’t true. _I can still be good enough, though_ , he tells himself as he makes his way to his post. It wouldn’t do to be late on his first day. 

He’s unaware of Regis’ worried gaze on his back as he walks away. 

* * *

“Your Crownsguard, your Majesty.” Aleam Amicitia says, eyeing Cor as he stands in the doorway of the king’s quarters. 

“Cor the Immortal,” Mors drawls, lounging in an overstuffed armchair, a glass of wine held loosely in one hand. Cor grimaces at the moniker, but looks at Mors steadily. The king isn’t paying him any attention, instead inspecting the rim of his glass, twisting it this way and that, watching the changing reflection. 

“Your Majesty,” He greets, inclining his head slightly, the way he’s seen Clarus greet people a million times before. Mors gestures loosely with his free hand for Cor to enter the room. Cor shuffles forwards slightly, glancing warily at Aleam as he does. He’s met with a cold stare that starts Cor’s heart racing. 

“I don’t like being ignored, boy.” Mors says abruptly. Cor gulps and briskly crosses the room, coming to a stop a respectable distance from him. 

“Sorry, your Majesty.” He says, voice trembling slightly. 

“My apologies,” Mors remarks, tone disinterested, before sipping his wine. 

“Your Majesty?” Cor asks, cocking his head in query. 

“When you apologise to me in future, you say ‘my apologies’. Understand?” The king explains, only looking at Cor as he finishes speaking. Cor swallows again, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling creeping up his spine.

“Yes, your Majesty.” Cor is surprised that he cares so much over wording, Regis doesn’t give a damn about things like that. He doesn’t even berate Cor for not addressing him as ‘Highness’, even though Cor should. _Maybe this is what he was warning me about,_ Cor muses. Mors is still watching him with that razor sharp gaze, and it’s making Cor’s skin crawl. 

“Aleam, secure the room, would you?” Mors asks suddenly. He never takes his eyes away from Cor. 

Cor watches the shield shut and lock the door, then cross the room and draw the curtains across the windows. The only light in the room is from the overhead chandelier, and the flames cast the room in a warm orange glow. He stiffens, his stomach flipping with nerves as Mors sets down his wine glass and stands suddenly. He towers over Cor, and his eyes rake up and down his frame. Cor has to fight an urge to flinch away. His gut is telling him to get the hell out of the room, but Cor’s not about to move. He’s just being stupid, he tells himself, trying to get a grip on his nerves. This is the _king,_ he has nothing to be afraid of.

“You seem fond of my son.” 

Cor worries at his lip as he considers how to answer. He’s not sure what Mors is getting at here, and at the moment, he feels like if he says one word wrong, he’s going to end up in deep shit. 

“He is a good friend.” Cor says carefully, gauging Mors’ reaction. The king grins, but Cor doesn’t feel any relief. 

“Are you devoted to him?” 

Cor nods, watching Mors closely, trying to ascertain _anything_ from his expression, but even with the smile, he seems devoid of emotion. 

“How devoted?” Mors asks, taking a step closer to Cor. He’s on the edge of Cor’s personal space, and Cor’s skin is tingling with unease. 

“I,” His voice comes out as barely a whisper, so he stops, swallows, tries again. “I don’t understand what you’re asking me, your Majesty.” 

“What are you prepared to do for my son?” Mors’ voice is dangerously low as he takes another step forward. Cor shuffles backwards, only to hit something warm and unyielding. 

Not something, some _one_. 

Aleam. 

Cor tries to move away from both of them, but strong hands curl around his shoulders, holding him in place in front of the shield. He tries to ignore the shaking in his legs, the way he suddenly feels breathless, tries to reason that - while this is beyond weird - this is still the king and his shield, and they have no reason whatsoever to hurt him. There’s no need for his discomfort. It’s irrational. 

“While you serve as my guard, there are certain… expectations, I have of you.” Mors tells him. The words are harmless, but Cor can’t deny his sinister tone. He stops moving towards Cor, instead eyeing him sharply, arms folded across his chest. 

Cor is trembling in Aleam’s grasp, his breathing unsteady, as he glances around the rest of the room, as if he’ll see something that will make this make sense. His attention is pulled back to Mors as he speaks again. The look in his eyes is predatory. Cor’s stomach drops, his blood running cold at the sight. 

“You will do whatever is commanded of you immediately, without protest. If you do not, there will be consequences.”

Cor feels dizzy. The room feels like it’s starting to spin. He manages to nod anyway, meeting Mors’ eyes. Green, just like Regis’. 

“You will not speak of any events that transpire in this room with anyone.” 

“Yes, your Majesty.” Cor whispers. He doesn’t trust his voice to work properly if he speaks any louder. 

Mors closes the gap between them, stepping up so close to Cor that he feels barely able to breathe, trapped between the king and his shield. A hand grips his chin, tilts his head to each side, Mors’ eyes narrowing as he inspects Cor. In that moment, he looks so similar to Regis that Cor’s breath catches in his throat. 

“So small.” Mors says, releasing his hold on Cor and stepping back. “It’s hard to believe you are capable of even holding a sword properly, let alone defeating Gilgamesh.” He grins, and Cor swallows, glancing down at the floor. 

He doesn’t see the king draw his arm back. 

Cor can’t hold back a cry at the punch to his midriff. The king is still _strong_ , despite his age. His body tries to curl in on itself, but Aleam’s hands dig into his shoulders, keeping him upright. Cor looks up at Mors in pained confusion. He doesn’t understand, why is the king _hurting_ him? 

He’s barely recovered his breathing when Mors hits him again. Pain blossoms behind his ribs as what little air he’d managed to gulp down is forced out of his lungs. He can feel tears building in his eyes, threatening to spill over. 

_This shouldn’t be happening,_ he thinks dizzily. _I have to get out of here!_

As soon as he tries to move, however, Aleam’s grip shifts. His hands slide down from Cor’s shoulders, hooking under his arms and drawing them back. Cor panics, struggling against the shield to no avail. He might be a good fighter, but there’s no way he can break Aleam’s hold, he’s nowhere near strong enough, and he knows it. They both know it.

He lets out a strangled cry as he stills, breathing heavily. When he meets Mors’ gaze, he feels sickened by the look of pure pleasure he sees on the king’s face.

“You want to protect my son, don’t you, boy?” Mors asks, and his voice is alive with emotion for the first time.

Cor lets out a whimper, even as he nods. Hot tears splash onto his cheeks as he waits, terrified, still held firmly against Aleam’s broad chest. 

“Then you will do precisely as I say.” Mors hisses, stepping in close to Cor again, grabbing his chin and forcing his head up. “You will not speak of the things that happen to you in this room, ever.” 

Cor shakes as Mors leans down slowly, bringing his face level with Cor’s ear before whispering.

“Because if you do, my son will be your replacement.” 

Terror floods through him at the words, and for a moment Cor loses himself, vision whiting out, ears ringing. He feels on the verge of passing out when his senses come rushing back with horrific clarity. 

The king’s lips are pressed against his own, his teeth nipping painfully at Cor's, drawing blood. Cor gasps, and the king invades his mouth with his tongue. Cor looks up at the ceiling of the room - white, so brilliantly white - and tries desperately to think of a way out, to think of an escape that won’t endanger Regis, because _damn it_ , he meant what he said, and he’s not even going to risk this happening to his friend. 

Mors breaks away from him, and takes a step back. Cor gulps down lungful after lungful of air, blinking rapidly. 

“Get him ready for me.” Mors says evenly, his back turned. He sounds bored, like he’s discussing the fucking weather, and Cor feels bile rise in his throat as Aleam squeezes his arms tight around Cor’s and pushes him forwards. Cor stumbles, but he lets the shield push him towards the bedroom without much of a struggle. He’s still crying, his breath hitching occasionally. Aleam releases him and roughly shoves him into the king’s bedroom. 

“Strip.” He orders gruffly, and Cor can’t stop himself from letting out a small whimper. 

He knows what’s coming next, but he’ll be damned if he ends up being the reason that Regis gets hurt. 

His hands are shaking so badly he can barely undo the buttons on his uniform, his vision blurry with tears. He must take too long, because Aleam lets out a low snarl and then steps into his space, grabbing his shirt and undoing the buttons himself, with much more success than Cor had been having. He tears Cor’s shirt off over his head and drops it on the floor. Cor looks down at it as he shivers uncontrollably. Aleam doesn’t hesitate, unfastening Cor’s trousers and dragging them and his underwear down Cor’s legs with chilling efficiency. 

Mind numb, Cor toes off his boots and works his feet free of his clothes. When he’s done, Aleam kicks Cor’s discarded uniform to one side, then grabs one of Cor’s wrists. He drags him over to the bed, halting Cor at the foot of it. 

“Bend over,” Aleam growls, moving to the top of the bed. Cor does as he’s bid, lowering himself down onto the covers until he’s resting on his chest. The sheets feel soft against Cor’s cheek, and he closes his eyes, trying not to think about what’s going to happen to him even as Aleam adjusts him on the bed. He pulls Cor’s wrists up above his head, securing them there with leather cuffs that’ve been attached to the bedframe. Cor tests the give in the restraints as Aleam nudges his legs wider apart. 

“Pull on them as much as you need to, Leonis.” Aleam tells him, voice oddly gentle. “They’re padded, they won’t leave marks.” 

It’s the fact that the shield actually sounds like he’s trying to reassure Cor that makes him sob, and once he’s started, he can’t stop. It’s like a dam giving way, and he grits his teeth, trying to cover up the sounds as a hand strokes down his back and over his ass. Cor refuses to open his eyes as there’s the rustle of more clothing being removed, and Mors’ voice fills his ears. 

“You scared, boy?” 

Cor sobs again, the fabric of the sheets wiping away his tears as he nods once. 

“Good,” Mors purrs over him. Cor flinches as he feels the king move in between his legs. “Just how I like it.” 

A hand spreads his cheeks apart, and there’s the sound of someone spitting. Cor feels the saliva hit his exposed hole, and he can’t keep back a distressed noise. He pulls on the cuffs, trying to distract himself with the bite of the leather against his skin. It works, until Cor feels the hot tip of Mors’ dick brush against his ass before Mors pushes into him.

The pain is excruciating, a hot, endless burning through his insides. He can’t hold back his scream as Mors continues to breach him, his hands gripping Cor’s hips harshly and holding him still as he keeps pressing further into him. His insides feel stretched taut and _wrong,_ and the burning sensation only worsens as he instinctively clenches his muscles against the pain. 

A low groan reaches his ears as Mors finally _finally_ stops moving. Cor is shaking violently, every muscle in his body tensed, and he’s hyper-aware of the feeling of Mors’ dick inside him, how it feels like there’s no room left for anything else, not even for air. It’s only a brief moment’s respite before the pain resumes, Mors sliding his dick almost all the way out only to slam back into Cor. He feels blood trickling slowly down between his thighs, and it’s only then he realises he’s bleeding. But even with the lubrication his blood provides, every thrust sparks more and more pain. Cor’s too breathless to scream now, but what little air there is in his lungs is pushed out in little high-pitched moans and whimpers as Mors uses his body relentlessly. Cor cries, and tries to think about anything other than what’s being done to him. He ends up thinking of Regis, convincing himself that this pain is _nothing,_ that he’d go through this a thousand times before he’d ever do anything that might cause Regis harm.

_I’m doing this for him._

Cor keeps that thought in his head as he waits for it to be over.

* * *

Aleam unties him, gathers his clothes and herds Cor into the bathroom. He hands him his uniform with a gruff order to clean himself up and get dressed before he shuts the door. As he leaves, Cor glimpses Mors fixing his clothes, a satisfied smile curving his face. It’s the first real emotion the king has expressed.

Cor vomits. 

He heaves until his stomach is empty, then grabs a washcloth and wets it in the basin, using it to wipe away the mess dripping down his thighs. He sees his own blood on the cloth, and his stomach spasms as more bile rises in the back of his throat. He stumbles back over to the toilet, leans over it and dry-heaves. Tears sting the back of his eyes, and his stomach aches. He stays there for a moment, arms braced on the porcelain, head hanging down, as he tries to grit his teeth through the pain. 

There’s a sharp knock at the door. 

“Hurry it up, Leonis!” Aleam calls. 

Cor gingerly gets to his feet and flushes the toilet. His uniform is crumpled to all hell, but he pulls it on and straightens it as best he can. He splashes cold water on his face, rinses and spits, then leaves the room. 

The taste of vomit still lingers. 

Mors and Aleam both turn to look at him as he enters, and Cor can’t help but falter. He can feel tears building in his eyes again as he regards them with trepidation. 

“Remember my expectations, boy?” Mors asks, grinning sadistically. 

Cor looks to the floor, swallows hard, tries to regain control of his breathing. 

“Yes, your Majesty.” He whispers. 

“Excellent. Then let’s go run this fucking kingdom.” 

Cor falls into step beside Aleam as they trail the king through the corridors of the Citadel. He notices the shield glancing at him from time to time, but Cor keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead. They make their way into the throne room in silence, and once Mors is seated, he follows Aleam to their assigned seats on the balcony to the right of the throne.

Cor keeps his expression blank as he sits, ignoring the searing pain spreading through his ass and stomach through sheer force of will. He’s hyper-aware of both Aleam and Mors watching him, and he’s determined not to give the bastards the satisfaction. He meets Mors’ gaze coolly, and Mors sends a razor-sharp smile his way before he turns back to face whatever dignitary is speaking to him. 

Cor watches the king, and when Mors retires to his chambers in the early evening, Cor stands just inside the door, keeps his face void of emotion, and his eyes fixed on a point on the wall opposite him. He listens to the king and his shield chat about the day’s meetings, he grits his teeth as their laughter grates against his nerves. He forces his breathing to stay even, keeps his thoughts on anything other than what happened that morning. He makes it to the end of his shift. 

He gets out of the citadel as fast as he can, ignoring everything around him, his mind empty as he makes his way home. He reaches his house, unlocks the door, and ignores his father as he makes his way upstairs. He shuts the door to his bedroom, then he curls up under the bedsheets and cries. At some point in the night, his tears stop. He’s not sure how long he lies there awake before he falls into a restless sleep, but when his alarm goes off, he’s never felt more tired. Or numb. He goes through his morning routine on auto-pilot, only pausing when he catches sight of his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looks awful. His eyes tear up as he looks at himself, and suddenly a wave of anger surges through him. 

_No more crying, Leonis._ He tells himself sternly. _You have to be strong. For Regis._

He goes to work.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for explicit underage rape, and forced blow job. Also beating and vomiting. 
> 
> Yeah, this isn't a pretty chapter guys, I'm sorry.

“I’m serious, Clarus. I’m worried about him.” Regis says, glaring at his shield with his arms folded across his chest. He probably looks petulant as all hell, but he doesn’t care. 

Across from him, Clarus sighs and rolls his eyes. They’re in Regis’ rooms, relaxing in front of the TV after a tedious meeting discussing plans for a ball for his father’s upcoming birthday. Regis thinks it’s stupid; there are a million more important things they need to address, given the state of the war, but of course his father doesn’t care about those issues. He leaves Regis to deal with _them_ , in the name of ‘good practise’. Almost everyone knows it’s because he actually doesn’t give a single fuck about Lucis, nor anyone who lives there.

“I don’t see why.” Clarus tells him, sipping at a bottle of beer. “Cor can handle himself, you know that.”

Regis huffs, settling back in his seat, his own beer currently untouched. “I know he can. I’m just concerned that it’s been nearly two weeks and we’ve barely seen or heard from him. You _know_ how my father can get.”

“Be fair to him, Regis. He’s a little brat around you, sure, but he knows not to mouth off to the king. My dad’s probably just got him running round doing all the things he hates.” Clarus grins, crossing one leg over the other.

Regis worries at his lip. Clarus is right, he knows Cor _does_ know how to behave properly, even if he rarely does when he’s with them. It’s not like Regis cares; he appreciates having someone else around him that isn’t trying to get into his good graces for when he takes the throne. His friendship with Cor is… refreshing.

“Even so, his shifts are only ten hours, twelve if meetings run over.” Regis points out. “I’d have thought he’d have dropped in to bitch about him by now.” He’d hate to think that Cor was letting his father get to him, breaking his confidence to speak his mind. Mors is accustomed to having his way, down to the words people are allowed to say to him, and Regis knows only too well that Mors wouldn’t think twice about lashing out at someone like Cor if they messed up. Hell, even he’s had a few stray slaps sent his way over the years.

“Or maybe he doesn’t want to bad-mouth your father in front of you?” Clarus suggests, raising an eyebrow.

Regis frowns at him. “It’s _Cor_.” He answers, and smiles when Clarus snorts. Cor wouldn’t care about a little thing like that. That thought makes Regis sober again. “I tried to warn him,” He admits quietly, picking at the label on the bottle he’s holding loosely, looking at the floor. “He just rolled his eyes.” He chuckles softly, thinking absently how smart Cor had looked in his uniform. He looks up at Clarus, trying to figure out how to word what he meant, to explain why he felt so nervous for his friend. “It’s just, I’d hate it if my dad did do something, and I could’ve stopped-”

Clarus leans forward, claps a hand on Regis’ shoulder, smiling sympathetically. The prince’s eyes are filled with worry, and Clarus wants nothing more than to assuage it.

“You can’t stop what you’re not there to stop, Regie,” He says gently, squeezing his friend’s shoulder. Regis looks ready to protest, so Clarus pushes on before he can speak. “If you’re really this worried, then call him. Invite him over after work. _Talk_ to him.”

“You’re right.” Regis concedes, with a humourless laugh. He rubs at his forehead, then shoots Clarus a rueful grin. “What time’s it?”

“A little after six.” Clarus tells him, glancing at his own phone.

Regis nods, looking a little calmer as he fishes his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll text him now.”

Clarus salutes him with his beer, grinning. Regis rolls his eyes at him, but then he smiles softly, and Clarus knows he’s feeling at least a little reassured.

* * *

Cor hears his phone vibrate against the varnished wood floor of Mors’ bedroom. His eyes flicker over to it, and he gets a harsh smack across his face. He winces and moans in response. His jaw is aching, and he’s pretty sure his neck is ringed with bruises. Not that he has to worry about that. If anything is visible, Aleam will help him cover it up.

Above him, his moan is echoed, but surprisingly, Mors doesn’t verbally reprimand him. A hand returns to his hair, yanks at the strands roughly. Cor gets the message though:

_Keep your eyes on me._

“Your Majesty, his shift ended fifteen minutes ago.” Aleam says, sounding bored. He’s stood over by the door, watching Mors use Cor with a blank expression.

Mors keeps fucking into his mouth languidly, not caring that Cor gags every time he thrusts too far. A part of him thinks that he’s trying to make Cor be sick. After two weeks of working for him, Cor wouldn’t put it past him. He resettles his gaze, keeping eye contact with the king, who just grins toothily at him. The wood isn’t forgiving on his bare knees, but at the very least the slow-building ache is a decent distraction from the salty taste filling his mouth as Mors finishes. 

Cor swallows as much as he can, but cum and saliva still dribbles down his chin as Mors pulls away from him suddenly. Cor doesn’t move to wipe it away, knowing he’ll be smacked again if he does. His king likes to see him used and dirty. 

“You’re lucky he’s here to look after you, boy.” Mors grins, stroking through Cor’s hair with one hand. Cor swallows uneasily, waits for a proper dismissal. “Until tomorrow.” The king says with a faint sigh, turning away.

Cor scrambles for his clothes and makes his way into the bathroom to make himself look decent. As soon as he’s done, he leaves, fast and silent, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself. 

As the door shuts behind him, his phone goes off again. He grabs it out of his pocket and sees a couple of unread messages. He clicks on the first as he makes his way through the Citadel, but before it can load properly, the phone vibrates in his hand, only this time, it’s a call. 

From Regis. 

Cor bites his lip, not sure whether or not to pick up. On the one hand, he hasn’t seen Regis since that first morning, and it’s been even longer since he spoke to Clarus, and he’s missed them. On the other hand, he really doesn’t know if he can talk to them right now without ending up endangering Regis, and that’s not something he is prepared to do. Deep down, he knows that’s why he’s ignored them for the last two weeks. 

It’s just been easier to avoid them. To avoid thinking about what happens when he’s working. But if he keeps ignoring them, they’ll get suspicious… 

He curses mentally as he presses accept and brings the phone up to his ear.

“Hello?” 

“Hey Cor, it’s me.” Regis sounds like he’s soothing a wild animal. Cor can’t help a guilty flinch. 

“Hey,” He says back quietly. “What’s up?” 

“Did you get my message? Are you coming over?” Cor feels cold suddenly. He feels his breathing quicken and prays that Regis can’t hear it over the phone.

“No, I-” He breaks off and clears his throat. Gods, his voice had sounded so wrong, even to his own ears. “My apologies, I was just about to read them when you rang.” 

“Oh, Clarus and I just wondered if you fancied coming over for a bit? We haven’t spoken in a while.” 

They’re his friends, he really shouldn’t feel sick at the thought of seeing them.

“Sure,” He breathes shakily, turning to head back towards the prince’s rooms. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Great!” Regis answers. Cor cringes as he hangs up. Regis’ voice had sounded wrong, all false cheeriness and underlying worry. He shakes his head at himself. It has to be in his head, there’s no way Regis would suspect anything from one phone call…right? He couldn’t have.

His heart sinks though as he reaches Regis’ rooms and hears his voice carrying through the closed doors.

“I _knew_ something was wrong!” Regis yells. “ _Six!_ Six, I should have checked up sooner!”

Cor hesitates, unable to bring himself to knock.

“Regis, calm down!” Clarus’ deeper, much calmer voice replies. “You were on the phone for all of two minutes, you’re overreacting.”

“He said ‘my apologies’, Clarus!” The prince spits out. “Cor _never_ says ‘my apologies’, he says ‘sorry’.”

Cor feels shaky. He should leave. If Regis _has_ noticed that after one phone call, Gods knew what he might figure out from an actual conversation. This is too dangerous. But then, would failing to show up cause more concern? Probably.

“That hardly means anything, Regie.” He hears Clarus say softly. “Almost everyone around here says that. He’s probably picked it up without even realising.” There’s a sigh.

“Gods, I hope you’re right.” Regis exhales shakily.

Okay, so he just has to pretend that he’s fine. Everything’s fine. He’s fine. It’ll be fine.

Cor takes a deep breath and pushes the door open. He forces a grin as his friends jump apart from each other – like he hasn’t seen them hug before – and walks over to them. Regis immediately pulls him into a tight hug, and Cor tries not to tense up too much, but damn it’s hard. Why did Regis have to look so similar to his father?

“Hey,” He breathes, belatedly wrapping his arms around Regis in return. Clarus meets his gaze over the prince’s shoulder and rolls his eyes with a fond grin. Cor smiles back as Regis releases him.

“Are you okay?” Regis asks, eyes tight with worry as he searches Cor’s face. His hands are still on Cor’s shoulders.

“I’m fine,” Cor sighs, lowering his gaze. “Just tired.” He can’t meet Regis’ eyes. His heart pounds sickeningly in his chest as he waits for Regis to let him go. He feels sick, lying to him like this. A heavy silence settles, and Cor swears the building tension is palpable.

“Fancy a drink?” Clarus asks, and just like that, the atmosphere in the room relaxes. Regis drops his hands, and heads back over to the couches. Cor follows him, sitting down heavily across from Regis, hiding his grimace in a sigh as he does.

“No, thank you, Clarus.” He says, offering him a strained smile. “So, what’s up with you guys?”

Clarus settles back into his seat next to Regis, while the prince leans forwards, still watching Cor intently.

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” He mumbles. “How are you finding your job?” Regis’ voice is guarded, and Cor feels a small spark of irritation in his chest. Perhaps, before he’d worked for Mors, Cor would have been indignant at the tone; would probably have chastised the prince for thinking he couldn’t handle his job. Now, he’s just too tired. He lets the feeling die down.

“It’s okay,” He sniffs, drumming his fingers against the armrest. “Not what I expected, I guess, but it’s fine.” _What an understatement,_ he thinks darkly to himself. His lips curl into a wry grin, and thankfully, this seems to appease his friends, who both smile back at him.

Regis laughs shakily, bowing his head slightly. Cor feels a wave of guilt crash over him. He can’t believe that he’s so worried about Cor, and the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach returns ten-fold. He hates this, hates lying to them.

“I just wanted to ask,” Regis explains, leaning back in his seat, his usual soft smile back in place. “He can get a bit-”

“Entitled?” Cor grins, ignoring the building shame he’s feeling. He has to sell this, because he cannot put Regis in danger. He can’t.

Regis lets out a surprised bark of laugher, and Clarus chuckled.

“Yeah,” The prince says after a moment. Thankfully, he seems a lot more relaxed as he continues. “I’ve seen him get angry with his guards before, and I’d hate to think he was doing anything to you.” 

Cor hates himself.

He feels… nothing, actually. Just numb.

He forces a laugh through his teeth, because that seems like something he would’ve done before.

“Please,” He catches Regis’ eye, and immediately regrets it, because they’re the exact same damn green as Mors, and Cor has to fight a sudden urge to retch. “I mean, it’s me. He might be the king, but it’s not like I’d let him hit me, or anything.”

_No, just tie you down and rape you_ , his traitorous mind whispers. Even as he thinks it, he feels the phantom impact of Mors’ fist catching Cor in the stomach. For a moment, he wonders why the hell he’s protecting the man. Surely, Clarus wouldn’t let harm come to Regis, even if Cor did say something? It’s still not worth the risk.

Regis grins ruefully. “Of course.”

Seemingly convinced, the conversation flows a lot easier from there, and it feels easier for Cor to fall into the headspace he’s made for himself, where he can pretend that it doesn’t happen. Eventually, he even feels relaxed. By the time he leaves, he feels a lot better, and has agreed to drop in to see them again over the weekend.

When the door closes behind him, Clarus lets out a content sigh.

“Don’t you dare-” Regis begins, eyes closed.

“I told you so!” Clarus cuts in anyway, laughing as Regis scowls and picks up a cushion. He raises a hand over his face, still laughing, as Regis hits him. There’s no real strength behind it anyway.

“I hate you.” Regis mutters, but he can’t hold back a grin.

“No, you don’t.” Clarus counters, watching the prince from the corner of his eye as he takes a drink.

“No, I don’t.”

Regis smiles, and Clarus returns it, satisfied that his friend had stopped needlessly worrying about Cor.

* * *

Cor has been working for Mors for six months before it occurs to him to ask.

It’s nearing two in the afternoon, and Mors has just left for an appointment with a doctor. Aleam escorted him, so Cor’s taking his time cleaning himself up. It’s weird, he thinks, how quickly he got used to this. How quickly he accepted that it would happen. He doesn’t fight it, he rarely even cries anymore. He’s learnt how to just lie there and let Mors take what he wants.

He pulls on his trousers and pants once he’s wiped down his legs, washing the cloth out thoroughly before he lifts the cloth up to his shoulder. He catches his reflection, and his breath stutters. Is that really him? Cor stares at himself in the mirror, pausing in his ministrations as he actually takes himself in. There’s a few bruises littered along his collarbone, and one at the base of his neck. He presses his thumb into it gently, and it throbs slightly. He looks pale, deep purple bags under his eyes stark against his skin. His back tingles as the hi-potion finishes taking effect, sealing up the thin cuts that are bleeding lightly. Mors had whipped him that morning before taking him over his desk. He’d taken great joy in pressing Cor down on his back on the hard surface. In watching Cor’s discomfort. His _pain._

He’s pulled from his thoughts by the slamming of the door, and he quickly finishes wiping himself down as Aleam makes his way further back into the rooms. There’s a brief knock on the bathroom door before it opens and he steps through. Cor half-turns to meet him.

“You need a hand with anything?” The shield asks gruffly, stepping closer to examine the cuts on Cor’s back. They’re mostly healed, Cor can tell.

“I can’t reach all the blood on them.” He says quietly, still holding the washcloth. Aleam might not care whether or not Cor has blood on his back for the rest of the day. He twists it in his hands, turning his back to Aleam, keeping his gaze on the floor. There’s silence for a moment, then Aleam takes the cloth from him and begins to dab at his back gently.

“Thank you.” Cor murmurs. The shield only grunts in reply, reaching around Cor to re-wet the cloth before he returns to cleaning him. With nothing else to do, Cor watches his face in the mirror.

“Why is this happening?” Cor whispers the thought without really meaning to. It’s something he asks himself quite often, not that he can ever come up with an answer. He stiffens as soon as he realises he's spoken out loud, but Aleam barely even pauses.

“The king likes young boys,” He replies distractedly, scrubbing at a spot of dry blood on Cor’s shoulder blade. “And you’re one that he can have without anyone asking questions.”

Cor hadn’t honestly been expecting an answer. He’s reeling, although it’s not exactly new information. Still, hearing it said out loud, so casually… Cor shivers. He’s quiet again for a minute, wondering if it says something about him that he doesn’t feel all that much revulsion.

“Why do you let him?” His voice trembles, but Aleam still continues, seemingly unbothered by the question. His tone is still even as he replies.

“Because you dishonoured me.”

Wait… what? Cor hasn’t done anything. He frowns, casts his mind back through the last six months, but there’s nothing he can think of. He’s been nothing but respectful to the shield.

“No,” He says, because he can’t see it, and now he needs to know what Aleam considered disrespectful, because he’d never meant to be. “I – I don’t – how have I?” Cor stutters out eventually. This time Aleam does pause. He meets Cor’s gaze in the mirror, and he’s taken aback by the fierce glower on the shield’s face. There’s so much anger in his expression that Cor’s heart begins to beat double time.

“You don’t see how you completing the trial of Gilgamesh dishonours me?” Aleam growls, his eyes never leaving Cor’s.

Oh, _fuck._

Cor hadn’t thought about that. He’s rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes away from Aleam’s. His pulse quickens and thoughts race around his head. He thinks, probably, honesty is the best policy here, so he tries to explain.

“No, I-”

He never gets to finish. There’s a dangerous flash in Aleam’s eyes, and then a sharp bright pain explodes against the side of Cor’s skull. He stumbles forwards, catches himself on the edge of the sink. It takes him a moment to process that Aleam hit him. Cor turns to face him, eyes wide with fear, opening his mouth to try again, because if Aleam understands that he never beat Gilgamesh, maybe he’ll reassign him, and this nightmare can end-

Aleam hits him again, eyes bright with fury. He catches Cor across the jaw, and the taste of copper fills Cor’s mouth. He must’ve cut his cheek open. Cor raises a hand to his cheek, watching with building terror as Aleam steps closer, towering over him.

“You insolent-”

“No!” Cor cries out, desperate to explain himself. To end this.

“How dare you!” Aleam growls, sweeping Cor’s legs out from under him. He lands heavily, barely catching himself. He’s breathless, and his head is spinning, his ears ringing. When he sees Aleam raise a foot, ready to stamp down on him, he throws himself forwards, scrabbling for purchase on the tiles. He just barely dodges, and he’s hardly on his feet before Aleam has spun around, grabbing at his shoulder. Cor spins to face him, raising his fists to shield his face when he sees Aleam’s drawn back fist. He kicks wildly, landing a solid blow on Aleam’s stomach, and runs while the man gasps for air. He staggers out into the living room, adopting a fighting stance as Aleam follows him, anger visible in every line of his body.

His ears are still ringing. He’s dizzy, uncoordinated, and he only manages to block and dodge a couple of hits before he misjudges a step. The blow to his gut sends him stumbling, wheezing for air. He spits out a mouthful of blood – his cheek still bleeding – and tries to ready himself, but Aleam has followed him across the room, and he grabs Cor by the scruff of his neck, angling his face upwards. Cor tenses, and Aleam drives his fist into Cor’s midriff.

Cor cries out as he bends double, stars spinning across his vision. Aleam’s knee slams into his face, and there’s a sickening crack. Blood spurts from his nose as he finds himself suddenly on the floor. It’s only momentary, before Aleam’s tight grip on his neck returns and he’s being lifted up. He’s barely found his feet, trying to clear some of the fuzziness in his mind, when Aleam shifts his grip around to his throat. Cor raises his hands, tries to prise Aleam’s hand away from his throat, wheezing for air, choking on the blood filling his mouth and nose. Aleam slams him into the wall with such force that his vision is filled with black spots, and he can’t hear anything over the bright white noise filling his ears. He’s too breathless to even cry out as Aleam yanks him forwards and drives him into the wall again.

Cor hangs there, limp, lips tingling with lack of oxygen, and for a moment, he wonders if Aleam is going to kill him.

“How did a little fucking runt like you defeat Gilgamesh?” Aleam spits into his ear. Cor whimpers as he registers Aleam drawing his arm back, ready to hit him again. He flinches, but the impact never comes. He blinks his eyes open, terrified. Aleam isn’t looking at him. His head is turned over his shoulder. Cor drags another painful breath in and follows his gaze.

Mors is watching them.

His lips are slightly parted, but his eyes are alive and dancing bright in the light. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he looks from Cor to Aleam, his shocked expression slowly dissolving into one of pure delight.

For a moment the only sound in the room is Cor’s laboured breathing. Then Mors shifts, walking over to the couch and settling into it. He’s still grinning devilishly, like this is the best thing he could have hoped to see _. He’s fucking twisted, maybe it is._ Cor thinks distantly.

“Don’t mind me,” Mors says, still watching them with that unhinged smile. “You carry on.”

Cor shifts his gaze back to Aleam, regarding him with fear. Aleam seems to falter, and for a second, Cor thinks he’s going to let him go, but then he reaffirms his grip and his fist connects with Cor’s jaw. He moans, spitting blood. When Aleam draws his arm back again, though, Mors interrupts, tutting loudly. Cor sees Aleam grit his teeth as he pauses.

“You can do more than hit him,” Mors sneers. Cor pushes weakly at Aleam’s wrist, but he’s barely got the strength left to grip onto it, let alone actually dislodge it. “I’m hardly going to stop you.”

Aleam lets go of Cor abruptly. He falls the short distance to the floor, unable to catch himself. He gulps down air desperately, so grateful that he can breathe again that he pays no attention to the two men. 

“Come on,” Mors hisses. “Come on, Aleam! You know you want to.”

Cor manages to roll himself onto his side, glancing up at Aleam.

The shield is looking down at him, anger warring with uncertainty on his face. Cor tries to speak, but only ends up coughing more blood.

“You know you want to make him feel pain.” Mors continues. “Go on, fuck him, make him feel the _shame_ he’s inflicted on you.” 

Cor keeps his eyes locked on Aleam, pleading silently. He stays stock still on the floor by Aleam’s feet. His head is swimming, the bright lights pricking at his eyes, making them water.

“What are you waiting for?” Mors asks, tone becoming agitated. “Or is the beaten boy too much of a threat for you?” He sneers.

Cor watches as Aleam’s face hardens, his eyes going cold. It’s the same look he’d gotten from Aleam on his first day, and Cor’s heart sinks. Fast as lightning, Aleam leans down and hauls Cor up, roughly manhandling him until he’s standing.

Mors’ cackle is loud in the room, and he stands, gesturing to be followed as he makes his way over to his desk. Aleam shoves Cor forwards, keeping one hand on his shoulder to stop him from falling as he stumbles. Mors settles himself into his chair, and simply points at the desk. Aleam pushes him down over it, moving in close behind him.

Cor can see the hard outline of the king’s dick through his pants.

“Don’t stop there, Aleam. You know what to do.” Mors says, casually examining dirt under one fingernail. Cor waits, unmoving. He’s in too much pain, the hard edge of the desk digging into his already tender belly. When Aleam doesn’t move immediately, Mors turns his head to regard him, one eyebrow raised.

“I guess the boy does have more balls than you, after all.” Mors says, with a dramatic sigh. Behind him, he hears Aleam growl and then suddenly his uniform is being ripped off again, and all he can see is Mors’ sadistic grin getting bigger on his face as Aleam grips Cor’s asscheeks. There’s the now-familiar sensation of being spat on, and then he’s being torn apart as Aleam enters him. It’s agonisingly slow, and Cor moans in pain, feeling his skin tear. Hot blood trickles down his thigh.

“Yes!” Mors breathes heavily. He leans forwards in his chair, stroking a hand tenderly through Cor’s hair. It hurts like fuck, his head throbbing anew as Mors continues petting him. Aleam stills for a moment, and lets out a low growl. “Make it hurt, Aleam.”

Cor wants to speak up, wants to explain that it already hurts, that his head feels like it’s been split open, that he can’t breathe through his own blood, that he can feel his stomach spasming where Aleam had punched him. Aleam doesn’t need to hurt him anymore. Aleam doesn’t need to hurt him at all.

_I didn’t even defeat Gilgamesh!_

He wants to scream it at them, but instead, he moans again as Aleam shifts. Then Aleam draws out, pushing back into him hard and fast. Cor screams, unable to hold back the sound as Aleam fucks him relentlessly, each thrust forceful enough to make the edge of the desk bite into his stomach. Pain lances through his entire body with every movement.

Aleam’s fingers dig into his hips, as he keeps going, harsh and unforgiving. Cor’s stomach churns restlessly. He’d thought that there couldn’t be pain worse than what Mors had already inflicted on him.

Gods, he’s wrong.

Mors is laughing. He stands suddenly, deftly undoing his belt and freeing his own dick. Aleam falters slightly, but Mors ignores him in favour of grabbing Cor’s jaw, angling it just so.

“Why have you stopped?” Mors asks, thrusting his dick into Cor’s mouth. Cor gags, but Mors pays him no mind. “Is it all too much for you?” He continues taunting his shield, gripping the back of Cor’s head and pushing it forwards to meet his thrusts. “Don’t tell me you lost your nerve? Maybe I should make the boy my shield.” Mors muses aloud.

Aleam curses loudly, but he starts to move again, pushing Cor forwards, his whole body shifting with every movement. He’s whimpering around the king’s dick, little high-pitched sounds, the only sound he’s capable of making as he struggles to breathe around Mors.

“Hit him!” Mors spits, his grip in Cor’s hair tightening suddenly. Cor lets out a choked sob. Aleam doesn’t even hesitate this time, taking one hand off Cor’s hip and punching him repeatedly in the back. Each blow punches desperate sounds out of him, and after a few minutes Cor can feel a hot burning moving up his throat, his stomach churning. Recognising what’s about to happen, he whimpers, and dazedly lifts one hand, tries to push Mors away.

By some miracle, Mors steps back in surprise when Cor touches him, and it’s just in time for Cor to be able to yank his head away before he hurls violently. Sick splatters onto the floor, and despite the situation, Cor can feel his cheeks heating in embarrassment. Aleam doesn’t hit him, but he doesn’t stop fucking him either, and each thrust feels like it brings up more and more sick.

His throat is raw, burning with bile, and there are unshed tears in his eyes. Cor half-expects Mors to hit him, but he doesn’t. Once Cor has stopped retching, he simply drags Cor’s head back up and resumes fucking his face.

“Doesn’t it feel wonderful, Aleam?” Mors sighs, stepping back in close to Cor. “Aren’t you proud?” He laughs breathlessly, snapping his hips forwards, suddenly much more frantic and forceful. _He’s getting close_ , Cor thinks. He knows the signs, by now. “Look at the mess you’ve reduced Cor the Immortal to!”

If Cor could be sick again at the use of the nickname, he would’ve been.

Mors groans, shifting his grip on Cor’s head. He thrusts one more time, burying himself in the back of Cor’s throat. Cor’s mouth fills with hot cum and he chokes, unable to move away, unable to swallow. He struggles futilely, and every bit of his body is in pain, Aleam still fucking him, his head pounding as he gags again and again, but Mors doesn’t let go. Cor cries out, the sound muffled, and there are dark spots dancing at the edges of his vision as he tries to push himself away from Mors. The king doesn’t relent, and Cor feels tears splash down onto his cheeks just before the darkness at the edges of his vision creeps in. He thinks he can hear Mors laughing above him when he cries, but the sound is very faint.

He surrenders to the darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for suicidal thoughts, suicidal ideology, self-harm, depression, depressive thoughts, grooming, underage drinking, non-con, rape, self-blaming, self-hatred, cutting
> 
> My sincerest apologies if I've missed anything out from that list. This is not a pretty chapter, please be careful when reading this!

“Dad?”

Cor asks timidly one evening. They’re both ignoring the TV in favour of staring off into the middle distance. It’s dark in the room, the daylight fading rapidly, but Cor can’t bring himself to go switch on the light just yet. His father probably can’t even stand without falling over. The whole house stinks of stale booze.

He gets a grunt of acknowledgement from the couch his father is sprawled on. Cor looks at his hands where they rest on the dining table, the old wood rough against his palms. His whole body aches relentlessly, muscles tense from the constant strains of work. It’s been two months since Aleam beat him black and blue; the last of the bruises have yet to fade from his chest. He wants to feel tears building as his thoughts turn to that day. He’d even take fear right now, but all he does feel is empty. He can’t tear his gaze away from his hands. His fingers are slowly turning blue. The boiler is broken, and Tristis spent the money Cor had put by to have it fixed on bottles of whiskey. The first one was lying empty on the carpet, close to his father’s hand that’s dangling off the side of the couch. His other arm is thrown over his eyes. 

Cor has felt nothing since that day. 

“What would happen if I… wanted to quit?” He mumbles.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Cor’s just beginning to think that Tristis must’ve been asleep after all when there’s a shuffling sound. 

“Quit your job?” He slurs. Cor hums in confirmation, finally glancing over at him. His father has let his arm drop away from him, his head tilted back so he can regard Cor without getting up. “The hell?” 

“It’s just-” Cor sighs, looking away from him. He’s regretting ever opening his mouth. “I’m not happy, there.” He admits slowly. 

“‘S a job, Cor. You don’t do it to be happy.” 

“No, dad. I mean, I’m _really_ not happy there.” Cor answers, a little more insistently. How can he even begin to explain? “I really don’t want to do it anymore.” 

“Who’d pay for this place?” Tristis asks, yawning widely. He feels across the floor with one hand, cursing softly under his breath when he finds the bottle empty. Cor fetches him a new one from the kitchen without thinking. “Look, sometimes life’s shit, right? You just gotta deal with it.” 

He returns to his seat, mulling over that. “What if I can’t?”

“For fuck’s sake.” He hears Tristis murmur. “Grow up. Start acting like an adult, Cor. You find a way to deal with it!” Tristis snaps, fumbling the bottle open slowly. “If you want a roof over your head, lad, then you’ll figure it the fuck out. And quit whining about it.” 

Cor doesn’t answer. There’s nothing he’s got to say that his father will want to hear, anyway. After a few minutes of tense silence, Tristis sighs loudly, turns the TV up even louder, and goes back to drinking. 

A few hours later, the second bottle is almost empty. Cor listens to his father’s breathing, waits until it’s evened out, deepening as he falls asleep. When the snores start, Cor can’t hold it back. He tells his father about everything Mors has done to him, about how much it hurts, and how humiliating it is, how he’s so ashamed he can’t even look his friends in the eye anymore. That he feels a detached simmering anger whenever they ask if he’s okay, and how he snaps at them to leave him alone. He explains that he knows full well that he’s drifting too far from them, that he’s going to lose their friendship altogether if he can’t _do_ something about this. He explains how it’s even worse now, because now Aleam joins in most days, even though he seems less than enthusiastic about it. He says that he wants it to stop, that he knows if he said anything, then it’d be his fault Regis got hurt, just like it was his fault that his mum’s dead. Like it’s his fault Tristis hates him. He explains that he feels guilty for even thinking about wanting to speak out, knowing what it would mean for his friend. He says he knows he’s a horrible person. He tells him that he can’t truly feel anything. Everything is distant, detached, like he’s watching someone else feel his emotions while he just continues on in an impenetrable bubble. There’s a whisper of Mors’ voice living in his head, telling him that he’s worthless; that the only thing he’s good for is spreading his legs and serving his king, and Cor tries to believe it’s not true, but it’s just one more thing he doesn’t have the energy to argue about at the moment.

There’s no response to any of it. 

Eventually, Cor gets up and switches off the TV. He grabs a blanket from an armchair and throws it over his dad. He explains, as he does this, that he wants to end it all. That most nights he’ll wake up, summon a dagger from the armiger and sit with it pressed to his wrist. He doesn’t cut, though. It would be oh so easy, but he doesn’t deserve such an easy reprieve as death. He goes to bed. 

The next day, Tristis haltingly asks him if they’d spoken at all last night. 

“No,” Cor lies easily, not meeting his father’s gaze. 

“Oh,” Tristis says softly, sipping at another bottle. “I must’ve dreamt it.”

* * *

The first time it happens is genuinely accidental. 

It’s shortly after his sixteenth birthday, and he’s training with the Crownsguard while Mors is in a meeting. His opponent feints, and he notices a second too slow to dodge fully; the hit lands, and blood splatters over the floor as the skin of his wrist parts underneath their blade. The guard he’s sparring against swears as his sword disappears in a blue shimmer. 

“Shit, I’m so sorry!” He says, grabbing a potion and smashing it over his arm. Cor can’t tear his eyes away from the wound as it heals. 

“‘S fine.” Cor mumbles, running his finger over the faint scar left behind. The guard fusses over him for a few more minutes, and then they carry on training. It passes in a blur, but when it’s over, Cor is still enthralled by the slightly raised ridge of scar tissue left behind. 

It’s the first thing that’s managed to break through the numbness since it descended. It’s the first thing he’s _felt_ in over a year. It’s amazing.

Clarus sees him picking at the scar that night when they’re watching a movie. He waits until Regis is out of the room, fetching drinks, then grabs Cor’s wrist, twisting it so the scar is visible in the light of the TV. 

“What is this?” Clarus asks, voice layered with concern. His grip on Cor’s wrist is unyielding. 

“Training accident.” Cor tells him, mustering up a tight smile, though he feels nothing but icy numbness. It’s kind of refreshing to not have to lie for once, although from the look on Clarus’ face, he doesn’t believe him. He can hardly believe the irony, that the one injury he’s truthfully explained to them this whole time, is the only one they think he’s lying about. 

“Cor, you know… if there’s anything going on, you know you can talk to us, right?” 

“It was an accident, Clarus.” He frowns. “I just didn’t get out the way in time.” 

Clarus hums, but he drops it. 

From there, it just kind of… spirals.

At first, it’s only in training, carefully spread out over time so that the Marshal or other guards don’t begin to suspect. Then, he starts to use the daggers in the armiger. He needs to, to remember what it feels like to feel. To feel pain that he can control. To feel like he’s in charge of what happens to his body. The first time he sees the scars, Aleam gives him a knowing look, but keeps silent. 

Mors giggles like it’s a particularly funny joke. Maybe it is, to him. He adds a scar for every noise that Cor makes as he and Aleam fuck him simultaneously. The king is reclining against his headboard, Cor’s arms braced over his head as he rides him. He sees the marks, and he takes one of Cor’s wrists gently in his own, holds it in his lap. He traces the scars as he laughs and laughs. He calls Aleam over, and calmly tells him to fuck Cor. 

“But, Your Majesty…” Aleam falters, gesturing helplessly at where Cor’s ass is already stretched around Mors’ dick. 

“He can take it, can’t you, boy?” Mors grins, patting Cor’s back with one hand. 

Cor knows by now not to argue. He nods. Mors laughs again as Aleam undresses and moves in between his legs, chest pressing against Cor’s back. The shield grips Cor’s hips, uses his hold to help Cor lift himself up and slide back down. Mors’ slender fingers encircle Cor’s wrist gently where it lays between them. In his other hand, he summons a knife from the armiger. Every cry, every scream, each groan and hiss earns another cut. Cor hates that the pain still breaks through. This is his only coping mechanism, why couldn’t Mors let him have this one thing? By the time both men climax, the glistening blade is covered in his dried blood. 

His arm ends up a mess. It doesn’t matter, though, because the only people who see are the king and the shield. He’s already stopped hanging out with Regis and Clarus unless it’s directly after work. The only person there is at home _to_ notice is too drunk, and Cor’s not sure he’d care even if he did see them. It doesn’t matter, because the long sleeve of his uniform hides them.

Life goes on.

* * *

“So, boy, I hear it’s your birthday today.” Mors greets him as soon as Cor’s shut the door behind himself.

“Yes, your Majesty.” Cor answers, guardedly. Mors hadn’t mentioned the occasion the previous year, and since Cor knows full well Mors gives exactly zero shits about him, the fact that the king has brought it up fills Cor with a familiar sense of dread. The razor sharp smile his confirmation earns him does little to reassure him.

“So you’re, what, seventeen?” He’s sitting at his desk, a half-written letter in front of him. He’s holding his pen loosely in one hand, watching Cor with an unnerving smile. 

“That is correct, sir.” Cor replies as he takes up his position, just to the side of the door. He falls into a parade rest stance without a second thought, and fixes his gaze on the wall opposite him. 

“My, almost a man in your own right.” Mors says, refocusing on the letter. “A day to celebrate, surely. You’ll be staying late tonight.” 

“Yes, sir.” Cor says. He can’t bring himself to be worried about that though, more preoccupied with how Mors knows. Cor hasn’t told him, and he can’t see that Mors cares enough one way or the other to go and look it up. The answer, eventually, seems so obvious Cor is amazed it takes him the first full hour of his shift to figure it out.

Regis. 

The prince had said he’d been planning to spend the day with Cor for his birthday; had been miffed when Cor said he had to work. They’d agreed to hang out tomorrow instead. In all honesty, Cor isn’t looking forward to it. It’s a different kind of tiring, pretending to be himself around them, and even a couple of hours on an evening leaves him feeling tired to his bones, in a way that not all the physical exertion in the world could replicate. He’s not sure he’ll be able to keep it up for a whole day. It’s fine though, he has a plan, if they start asking questions. They don’t know about his father’s drinking, so he can simply pretend that that’s a new development, not something that’s been normal in Cor’s life for twelve years. 

The day is full of back-to-back meetings, which means Mors is itching to let off steam by the time they get back to the king’s rooms. Cor is tense, anticipating that he’ll be the focus of Mors’ obvious irritation as soon as they get back, but instead, Mors remains the picture of composure. 

“Have a seat, I’ll fetch some drinks.” Mors says with a heavy sigh, striding away to his drinks cabinet.

Aleam settles himself in the armchair he usually takes when this invitation is extended to him with a quiet word of thanks. Cor takes his place by the door. 

“You too, Cor.” Mors says without turning around. 

He’s stunned. As if he’s forgotten the last two years of beatings and misery, he asks: 

“I’m sorry?” 

Mors stills, but after a moment he sighs and continues decanting his favourite wine. 

“Since it’s your birthday, I’ll forgive your choice of phrase.” He says, recapping the wine and placing the bottle back. “Join us, sit down. What would you like to drink?” 

For a long minute, Cor can only stare. He looks to Aleam with incredulity, but the shield shrugs his shoulders, looking as lost as Cor feels. 

“My apologies, Your Majesty.” Cor corrects himself belatedly, distractedly, trying to think of any reason for the change in routine. He comes up blank. “Um, I don’t understand.” 

The king chuckles slightly. “It’s your birthday, is it not? ‘A day to celebrate’ as I said this morning.” He glances at Cor over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised, smirking. 

“You did, sir.” Cor frowns, still nonplussed. 

“Well, I have the finest Altissian wine, Tenebraen wine, Galahdian brandy, beer, vodka, tequila…” Mors lists, gesturing at the bottles in the drinks cabinet as he does. “What would you like to drink?” 

Cor bites his lip. “I’ve never… drunk alcohol, Your Majesty.” He breathes out eventually. “I’m not old enough to.” 

“I’m sure we can overlook that this once.” Mors grins. He tilts his head, considering Cor in silence for a moment. 

“I think I know something you’ll like.” He says decisively, selecting a bottle and glass. Cor swallows, nerves churning in his chest. “And do sit down.” 

Cor does so, gingerly settling into one seat of the couch. The only sitting space left is next to him, and his heart begins to pound rapidly as Mors rejoins them, handing over a beer to Aleam before sitting next to him with two drinks in hand. He hands over a glass of clear fizzy liquid. Cor accepts it with a murmured thanks. 

“Well, try it. If you don’t like it, I’ll get you something else.” Mors tells him, just a hint of sternness in his tone as he sips at his wine. Cor sets the glass to his lips with trepidation. He makes a surprised noise as the drink hits the back of his throat. 

“It’s sweet,” He remarks, looking at the liquid in the glass, then at Mors as the king laughs heartily. 

“Gin and lemonade.” Mors says, smiling at him. “You like it, then?” 

“Yeah,” Cor answers, giving him an uncertain smile in return. 

“Good, drink up!”

Cor has another mouthful. It warms his throat as he swallows, and he can feel it settling in his stomach. The aftertaste is pleasant on his tongue.

After one drink, Aleam leaves. 

Cor sets his glass down when he’s finished it, standing to leave as well.

“Oh, no, no,” Mors says, placing a hand on Cor’s shoulder and pushing him back to sitting. “Stay, I’ll get you another.” 

Two hours pass. Cor has five drinks, because Mors keeps refilling his glass and telling him to drink. He ends up relaxing back into the couch cushions, slouching down in his seat in a way which he thinks Mors would normally be mad at. The king doesn’t say anything about it, though. He asks Cor questions about his family, and how he came to join the guard so young, and Cor happily answers him, glad for this sudden change in treatment. His head feels fuzzy, and it suddenly feels like a lot of effort to lift his drink up. He frowns slightly, stops what he’s saying. He feels really warm; the room is spinning around him. A wave of dizziness overtakes him, and Cor groans. 

“Cor, are you alright?” Mors asks, placing a hand gently on the top of Cor’s thigh. It’s warm through his trouser leg. Cor stares at it for a moment, only looking up to Mors’ eyes when the question fully registers.

“I don’t know, sir.” His words slur into one prolonged sound, like his tongue can’t cooperate, even though he concentrates so hard on forming the words. “I feel dizzy. Maybe I’m ill.” 

Mors chuckles, gives his thigh a firm but gentle squeeze. Cor’s attention is drawn back to it.

“You’re just drunk, Cor. It’s okay, I’ll look after you.” Mors soothes him gently. His voice is softer than usual, and it’s kind of nice. Cor looks up at him slowly. His eyes are a brilliant green in the firelight, gleaming bright like Regis’. For some reason, the thought makes his breath catch in his throat. A strange thrill runs through him, and he finds he can’t look away from Mors at all, even though a small part of his brain thinks he should be scared. He swallows against inexplicable nerves, his lips suddenly feeling dry. He licks them gently, still looking at the king. Mors makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat, his hand squeezing Cor’s thigh again. 

“I think it’s time we got you to bed.” He says, only his voice comes out hoarse. There’s something in his expression that Cor doesn’t know how to interpret. He stands suddenly, and gently pulls Cor to his feet with him. Cor stumbles - his legs feel like jelly - and ends up falling into Mor’s chest, only instead of pushing him away, Mors wraps his arms around him. It doesn’t come with the usual sense of fear. It feels… comforting, oddly. He just feels so _secure_ , and warm in the king’s embrace. He can feel Mors’ heart beating under his head. His stubble scratches the top of Cor’s head. 

Mors leads him slowly to the bedroom and seats him on the edge of the bed. Cor can only sit in wonder as Mors places a tender kiss against his lips and then deftly begins to unbutton his uniform shirt. The warm press of lips against his own feels so nice that Cor’s eyes flutter shut of their own accord, and when Mors pulls away Cor chases after him. Mors obliges him, meeting his mouth again as he slides Cor’s shirt down his shoulders. The king presses his tongue against Cor’s lips, parting them gently. He can’t help but let out a small moan as Mors presses further into his mouth. He brings his arms up to rest around Mors’ neck, one of his hands tentatively stroking through the hair on the nape of his neck.

As they part for breath, Cor’s mind spins, and he frowns to himself, momentarily wondering why he’d ever fought this. 

There’s a stirring in his groin, a tell-tale warmth spreading there, and it’s like Mors can read his mind - which is amazing, since Cor’s not really sure _he_ knows what’s going on at the moment - because he presses Cor backwards until his back hits the mattress. He nudges Cor’s legs apart, pressing a thigh up against his groin as he leans down and kisses Cor senseless. 

When Mors moves back, Cor lets out a whine at the loss. He’s fully hard now, his dick pressing against his uniform trousers painfully. He manages to get his arms underneath him, and sees Mors slipping out of his clothes efficiently. Cor’s hands fumble at his belt buckle, but they feel thick and clumsy, and keeping himself sitting upright without support is proving an impossible task. When Mors notices Cor’s attention on him, he smiles softly, and picks up Cor’s legs one at a time, removing his boots smoothly. Mors leans over him again with a quiet chuckle. He picks up one of Cor’s hands and raises it to his mouth, pressing soft kisses to each knuckle. Cor lets himself lean back on one elbow, and watches with growing need as Mors somehow manages to make swift work of his belt and then drags his trousers and underwear down his legs in seconds. 

Cor reaches for Mors once he’s free of his clothes, and pulls the king towards him. As Mors captures his lips again, Cor moans, letting his hands wander up and down Mors’ chest and back. They eventually settle on Mors’ hips, which gets a pleased hum from Mors. Mors hooks his arms under Cor’s and slides him further up the bed before joining him, pressing him down into the covers. 

Cor shivers. It feels so safe, with Mors pressing against him, his hands clasping Cor’s own and holding them down. His thigh is back between Cor’s legs, and the friction it provides is _so good_ and at the same time it feels like nowhere near enough. His cock is aching, so Cor does what feels natural, and bucks up into Mors, moaning at the pleasure that sparks through him. Mors peppers kisses down his neck, occasionally nipping, getting even more little sounds out of him. He sucks a mark into the hollow of Cor’s throat, then draws back. He gently pushes Cor’s legs apart until he’s kneeling in between them, stroking down Cor’s thigh gently as he retrieves something from the armiger. Mors smiles at him as he uncaps the bottle in his hand and pours some of the contents over his fingers. Then, he shifts forwards again. With one hand, he lifts one of Cor’s legs up onto his shoulder, the other pressing gently against Cor’s hole. 

He sucks in a ragged breath, biting his lip as he feels the tip of the king’s finger push into him. Cor whimpers slightly at the cold substance he can feel coating Mors’ finger, but Mors shushes him, soothingly running a hand up and down Cor’s thigh.

“It’s alright,” He croons, pressing a kiss to the soft skin on the inside of Cor’s thigh. “Just relax, Cor, honey. It’s not going to hurt, not this time, I promise.” 

Gradually, Cor relaxes, and Mors resumes preparing Cor, steadily working him up to three fingers before he pulls his hand away entirely and it’s replaced by Mors’ dick. The king doesn’t push in all at once, like he usually does, and there’s no searing pain this time. When Mors finally does bottom out inside him, Cor is already writhing on the sheets, his hips bucking wildly as he tries in vain to find friction against his throbbing cock.

Mors stills above him for a moment, groaning through gritted teeth. He looks down with a soft smile, his eyes focussing on Cor. 

“How does that feel, honey?” 

“Good!” Cor gasps out immediately. “It feels so good, please, I need it, plea-” 

Mors cuts off his babbling with a kiss, and Cor moans into it, especially when Mors starts to move again, fucking him slowly, but thoroughly. When Mors shifts slightly and the angle of his thrusts change, Cor arches his back off the bed as a wave of pleasure surges up his spine, heat pooling in his gut. He cries out and starts begging again, words tumbling out of mouth uncontrollably, his breath hitching as a tingling sensation spreads up from his spine. The heat in his groin gets more intense and he whines, fisting his hands in the bedding on either side of his head. Mors talks back to him, tells him that he’s good, _so good, just perfect for him as he takes his cock,_ and Cor sobs at the praise until Mors leans down and kisses him again, muffling the sounds.

When Mors wraps a hand around Cor’s dick and pumps it gently, Cor cries out again, his whole body going taut as he reaches his climax. His vision blurs, and Cor shuts his eyes against the sudden headrush his orgasm leaves him with. For a while, all he can focus on is the warmth that coils through him, the way he’s so completely relaxed. He’s exhausted, but for once it’s in a good way. He’s distantly aware of Mors groaning above him as he finishes in Cor, and then slight discomfort as he pulls out. He thinks he must make a noise, because Mors is quick to shush him, leaning down and peppering him with kisses.

“Happy birthday, Cor.” Mors whispers. 

Cor murmurs a thank you, but his eyes are drooping shut of their own accord. He tries to fight it, to look at Mors, but the king only presses a kiss to his brow and tells him to sleep. Cor can definitely do that, so he lets his eyes shut. He feels strong arms wrap around him, Mors holding him close to his chest. Cor hums, totally content as he drifts into a deep sleep.

* * *

He wakes slowly to a fierce throbbing in his head, his mouth feeling as dry as a desert, and a strong arm wrapped around his shoulders, keeping him pressed close to the warm chest his head is resting on. 

_Wait a second, who the hell is that?_ Cor’s mind is groggy. He closes his eyes again as he tries to remember what happened. The last thing he can remember is being offered a drink. He inhales sharply, his eyes opening wide as vague memories slot into place. Dread curls through him and he lifts his head, glancing up at the person he’s lying next to. He meets familiar green eyes, cold in the harsh light of day.

Cor jolts upright, pulling away from Mors and immediately regretting it as the room spins dizzyingly and his stomach roils. He can feel bile rising, hot and acidic, in the back of his throat and he swallows, clenching his eyes shut against the light in the room. As he does so, he feels a hand on his, dragging him to his feet. He stumbles as he’s led across the room, his legs shaking uncontrollably. 

He’s shoved roughly onto his knees just as he begins to retch. He just manages to catch himself on the cool porcelain rim of the toilet as he hurls. His throat burns as he empties his stomach, and the stench makes his stomach churn even when there’s nothing more to bring up. 

When he’s finally able to look up without the world blurring, he looks around and finds Mors watching him from the doorway. He’s fully dressed, immaculate-looking as always, and he’s holding a glass, which he offers to Cor as Cor stands and flushes the toilet. 

“It’s just as well you woke up when you did. You’ve got plenty of time to get cleared up before you meet Regis.” Mors says casually, making his way out into his front room. 

Cor sips at the water slowly. He rinses and spits until the horrible taste is gone, then slowly goes back through to the bedroom. He slips his discarded uniform back on, and it’s only as he pulls on his boots he realises he’s not in any pain. Cor frowns as he finishes the water. 

He’s always in pain after Mors rapes him. He thinks back, but the night before is vague and blurry in his head. He can remember being offered a drink, he can remember flashes of conversation, and he can remember being kissed. _No, that’s not right..._ he can remember kissing Mors. 

He kissed Mors. _He_ kissed Mors. 

The memory unnerves him. His stomach recoils and he dry heaves, but thankfully nothing more comes up. He can’t be right. But then, he reasons to himself, why else would he have woken up naked, curled around Mors? Why had he woken up here at all? Mors always, _always_ , wanted Cor out of his room as soon as he’d finished with him. Why is he here, and why isn’t he in pain? Feeling even sicker, he goes out into the main room, to the only person who might be able to make sense of his hazy memories. 

Mors is reading something at his desk. Cor approaches unsteadily. His head is still pounding. 

“Your Majesty?” He says, his voice wobbly. Mors pauses and regards him, one eyebrow raised. Cor ignores the trembling in his hands, and takes a deep breath. “What… happened? Last night? I-I-I don’t remember.” 

Mors leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing in thought as he looks Cor over. 

“What _do_ you remember?” Mors asks calmly. 

“You offered me a drink.” Cor says slowly, swallowing nervously. “I don’t remember much else after that.” 

Mors smirks, green eyes twinkling in the daylight. 

“You slept with me.” 

No.

_No, no, no, no!_ Cor thinks, but the words never make it out of his mouth. He swallows against a rising wave of nausea as his chest begins to tighten. 

“As in…As in…?” He asks, voice quavering. He can’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t want to hear the answer. His hands are trembling visibly, so he balls them into fists as Mors sets down the stack of papers.

“No.” He says slowly, like he’s talking to a particularly stupid child. “As in, you begged me for my cock, and since it was your birthday, I gave it to you.” 

He can’t breathe. He hears the words, but he can’t make sense of them at all. The edge of his vision blurs, and a distant ringing fills his ears as he struggles to suck in a breath. It’s too difficult, his chest feels like a tight iron band, and he tries and fails to get more air into his lungs, his vision is filled up by black spots. 

He wouldn’t have. He never wanted Mors to touch him, never enjoyed it, never! He wouldn’t have, he wouldn’t he wouldn’t -

_A soft groan, then a mild uncomfortable feeling, barely there, not enough to break through the general warmth he’s basking in, then kisses being pressed to his face, then a deep voice whispers above him._

_“Happy birthday, Cor.”_

The world snaps back into focus suddenly, and Cor scrambles to his feet - when had he fallen? - and just manages to rush back to the toilet in time. He heaves, though nothing except bile comes up.

The memory fills up his mind, and he can’t shy away from it. It’s there, playing in technicolor when he closes his eyes. _Green eyes, looking down into his own, soft red lips curved in a gentle smile…_ Cor can’t hide from the sudden wave of shame that overtakes him. 

Gods, he’d _wanted_ it. 

He’d wanted it. He must’ve, because it’s the only thing that makes sense. Why else would there be no pain this time? Why would he have woken up feeling safe and secure and _rested?_ He’d _wanted_ it. 

Guilt wars with revulsion and horror in his gut, his stomach churning restlessly, his head spinning with a million thoughts. He feels even more disconnected from himself than ever before, he’s feeling emotions sharply, which is different, but at the same time, it’s like he’s not attached to his body. He’s adrift in a sea of anguish and disgust, his self-hatred oozing and bubbling over and gods, he wishes he was at home right now, so he could take out his dagger and score a dozen new marks into his skin, but damn him if he’s going to give Mors the satisfaction of doing that here. 

_What’s the point?_ Mors’ voice whispers in his head. _I’m already more than satisfied. After all, you wanted me last night. You’ve validated every single one of my actions. You wanted it, you wanted it all, you wanted me._

Cor chokes on thin air, suppressing sobs into his hands as he tries not to listen to the traitorous thoughts, but he can’t disagree. 

_It isn’t rape if you wanted it all along._

He sobs again, a torn-off scream making it through his lips.

He’s not sure how long he stays there, crouched in the bathroom, making noises like a wounded animal, but when he’s finally out of tears, his throat is raw all over again, and his headache is a million times worse. 

With numb fingers, he grips his phone from his pocket and glances at the time. 8:00. Fuck. He’s meant to be meeting Regis and Clarus at 9:30 for whatever surprise they’ve planned for him. He’s barely going to have time to get home and shower before he has to get back here, and his phone is going to die. He won’t even be able to tell them he’s going to be late. 

He cringes, an all-too-familiar wave of loathing washing over him as he stands up. 

“Enjoy your day off.” Mors says without looking up at him as he leaves. 

Cor doesn’t reply - he’ll probably pay for that tomorrow - and he makes his way home in silence. The city is bustling with life, and it makes him want to leave, find a remote cave and just crawl in and die. He can’t deal with the noise, or the sensations, the light hitting his eyes, the bright colours around him, it’s all too much. By the time he makes it home, he feels nauseous again, and he’s shaking. His limbs feel achy, like they might collapse on him at any given moment. He doesn’t want to make himself leave again. He wants to curl up into a ball somewhere and hide. Hide away from it all, because he doesn’t know how he can live with himself anymore. He’d wanted it. But he’d never wanted it. He’d wanted it. 

He showers, scrubbing his skin red raw under the scalding water, and the pain appeases him just enough that he can force himself back out the door once he’s dressed. The repulsion doesn’t go away as he makes his way back to the citadel. When he sees Regis and Clarus waiting for him just outside Regis’ rooms, he cringes. 

Gods, how can they stand to look at him? 

He’s a vile, filthy, disgusting thing. He’s _pathetic,_ and he doesn’t deserve them, or a second of their attention. He feels their eyes on him as he walks towards them, and he looks away. He shouldn’t be here. He should just go and die and stop being a nuisance to everyone. The only person who’d even miss him is the one person whose interest Cor had never wanted. 

_Liar,_ his mind whispers again. _You wanted it. Why are you lying?_

“Hey, Cor!” Regis grins as he gets close to them. “Happy birthday!” 

“Thanks,” Cor mumbles out, still unable to look at them. He feels like a piece of shit, and he can’t suppress a flinch when Clarus chuckles lightly. 

“Dear me, you look like hell warmed over.” He says, and a hand lands on Cor’s shoulder. “Did you father let you drink, or something?” 

“Or something.” Cor agrees quietly. Regis snorts.

“Awwwww,” He coos, bracing his hands on his knees and bending over so his face is level with Cor’s. “Is the poor little immortal hungover?” 

“Piss off, Regis.” He manages to say, swatting at his friend halfheartedly. This only gets more laughter from his friends, but Regis does draw himself back up to his full height as Cor finally manages to meet his gaze. 

“Well, I was going to suggest a visit to Cid, but I don’t think I want to face the telling-off I’ll get if you end up being sick in the regalia.” Regis muses, watching Cor with a fond smile. It only makes Cor feel like a fraud. 

“What you need is a big, greasy breakfast to soak up the alcohol, and then we’ll take you paint-balling. How’s that sound?” Clarus asks, warmth in his tone as he pulls Cor into a sideways hug. 

“Sounds great.” Cor answers, mustering a smile. He doesn’t tell them the thought of food is setting his stomach churning, or that he doesn’t deserve them, even though he knows it's true. Instead, he goes along with their plan, and they manage to keep him out of his head for most of the day. He even manages to laugh and snark at them when he emerges victorious from the paintball match, and by the time they drop him off at the end of his street, he does feel vaguely human again in the distant way that’s become his normal in the past two years. 

But once he’s inside, and they’re gone, the voices are back in his head, and he falls asleep, exhausted to the bone, dreading work tomorrow, and wondering how long it’ll take him to work up the courage to just be done with it and end it all for good.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of this chapter, there is no new on-screen scenes of abuse BUT there are fairly graphic scenes which reference abuse previously described and there is one new scene which will be a SPOILER to explain, so I'll do that in the end notes! PLEASE CHECK THE END NOTES IF THIS COULD BE TRIGGERING!!!! 
> 
> TW: character death, slow death, illness, terminal illness, depression, grief, anger issues.

It starts out as a cold. Cor doesn’t think much of it, since it’s nearing September, and almost everyone in the Citadel is beginning to come down with the sniffles. Even when the cough persists for more than a month, he doesn’t really question it. Mors is getting on a bit, after all.

After two months, his doctors say that it’s the ring, and that Mors is beginning to run out of time. Even then, Cor doesn’t really register the implications of that. Yes, he knows that Mors is dying. But it’s still been another two weeks before he realises that in the ten weeks that he’s been ill, Mors has only raped him three or four times. 

_That’s_ when it hits him. 

He’s dying. 

It’s almost over.

Cor hates that that thought doesn’t come with any kind of relief. Rather, it makes him feel uncomfortable, and _that_ makes him feel even worse. 

Mors gets increasingly paranoid as he gets weaker and weaker. He lays off half the Crownsguard, despite Regis’ and Aleam’s best efforts to talk him out of it, utterly convinced that they were plotting his demise. That same week, he makes it so the only people with access to his rooms are his doctors, Regis, Aleam, and Cor. 

Cor’s shifts get shorter, but he gets more of them, to account for this. There always has to be someone able to protect him in the room, and not even Mors is expecting Regis to be in the right mindset to do that right now, which means it’s left to him and Aleam to divide up the days between them. They settle for six hours on, six hours off, twice daily. Regis arranges a spare room for him to crash in, but Cor makes the effort to go home at least once a day, if only to check his own father is still breathing. 

He ends up exhausted, in every sense of the word. It gets harder and harder to lift his head off the pillow, and even harder still to convince himself it’s worth bothering. Every time he catches a glance of himself in a mirror, it’s like looking at a stranger. His face is paler than ever, his hair messy and unkempt, his eyes dull and listless. They feel gritty, and some days it actually takes all his effort to keep them open as he stands by the doorway to Mors’ bedroom, watching him sleep. 

The King’s breathing is laboured, each painfully slow rise of his chest accompanied by soft wheezing. He’s rarely awake, and when he is, all he seems capable of is moving his head, and gasping out a word or two. Regis is there every day, from sunrise until Mors inevitably tells him to leave, or it falls dark. Some days, Mors spends rasping out instructions to his son - about his funeral, about certain council members and how to deal with them, about ruling. Parts of it are actually useful, but most of it will be ignored. That’s good, though. It means that with Regis on the throne, the state of Lucis might actually be improved. 

To Cor, it means that - in all the ways that matter - Regis is nothing like his father. 

Cor watches the people around him closely, envying the sad, accepting smiles he sees everyone give. He watches Regis spend days at his father’s bedside, holding his hand, eyes shut tight and face screwed up as he holds back tears. He’s not sure whether they’re tears for Mors, or if Regis is just struggling to accept that he is going to be King - that he could become King at any second, really. He watches Clarus stick his head around the door every so often, checking up on his friend, asking with a gentle voice if he needs anything, looking over him with concern. He watches the doctors purse their lips and turn away with heavy sighs each time they check Mors’ vitals. He sees Aleam - in the brief few minutes where they take over from each other - watching Mors with the same blank expression he has, but there’s a brightness in his eyes, some unrecognisable emotion nestled there, clear as day.

He has no idea how to feel, so he just… doesn’t. He embraces the numbness he’s felt for years now, and basks in the comfort it provides. The days blur in his mind, the only indication that time has passed is the snow that begins to appear on the ground, and the biting wind. Cor’s not sure if the constant cold - persistent even in Mors’ quarters - is in his head though, since no one else seems remotely bothered. 

When it happens, Cor is alone with him. He’s just arrived to relieve Aleam’s watch, the grey dawn bleak and miserable beyond the window. Cor settles into his post as Aleam ducks into the bathroom to freshen up before he leaves. He lets his mind wander, eyes flitting lazily around the room. At this point, even if there was a threat, Cor isn’t sure he could do anything about it. What’s the point in defending a dying King anyway? 

Cor stiffens suddenly, frowning at the empty room around him. The hairs on his neck all stand on end, and in his gut he knows something is wrong, but he can’t figure out what, only that something is _different_ , something has _changed._

It takes him a long minute to realise that the rattling breaths have stopped. He looks over to Mors, a sick feeling building in his chest. There’s no obvious movement, so Cor walks over to the bed. He stands to one side of it, perfectly silent, straining his eyes and ears for anything, but there’s still nothing. Mors’ chest is still, his body lax. With cold fingers, Cor gently takes his hand in his, turns it, presses his fingers into the vein in Mors’ wrist. He waits, but there’s no telltale movement underneath his fingertips. There’s no pulse. 

He’s gone.

Cor glances at the clock, distantly notes the time as 8:07 a.m., then looks back at the body in front of him. He looks frail. It’s difficult to associate this person in front of him with the man who’s caused him so much pain. The pale, still body in front of him doesn’t look capable of inflicting the agony that Cor has felt at his hands. It doesn’t seem real that the man who will probably forever plague Cor’s nightmares has been reduced to this fragile husk. 

He’s not sure how long he’s been standing there, Mors’ hand hanging limply from his own, when Aleam walks back in. He falters a couple of steps into the room, staring at Mors before hesitantly meeting Cor’s gaze. 

Cor can’t speak, so he slowly shakes his head, gently replacing Mors’ wrist on the bedside as he does. He takes a step away, feeling colder than he did before. He can hear Aleam moving through the rooms, hears him send for a doctor, and Regis, but he can’t tear his eyes away from Mors. 

From Mors’ body. 

Aleam joins him, sharing his silent vigil as they wait for the doctors. Cor is acutely aware of his presence. 

“It’s over.” The Shield whispers, not looking away from Mors either. 

Cor can’t speak around the lump forming in his throat, so he dips his head once, jerkily. It doesn’t seem like Aleam is looking to make conversation, anyway.

“It’s finally over.”

He falls silent after that, each of them lost in their own thoughts. 

Aleam’s words ring through Cor’s head, but he can’t comprehend them. How can it be over, just like that? Between one second and the next? 

A knock at the door breaks their reverie, but neither of them make a move towards it. Cor’s sure if he moves an inch he’s going to fall down. There’s a second knock, and Aleam shifts slightly. 

“Well,” He sighs, glancing once at Cor. “Happy birthday, I guess.” 

He walks out of the room swiftly. Cor blinks a couple of times. He hadn’t even registered that it’s his birthday today. He’s eighteen. No longer a child. He wonders if Mors would have stopped. Wonders if the appeal of raping him would have dissipated as he became legally recognised as an adult. He wonders if it matters as the doctors come through and check for signs of life. He’s not sure he’ll ever be the same, after this. He doesn’t feel like _him_ from before, the fifteen year old cocky little shit who’d run off to fight Gilgamesh because of one stupid comment that he’d taken to heart. Maybe, if this had never happened, he’d still be that person, who’d had the guts to stand up to a prince and tell him he was a coward, but now… 

He doesn’t know who he is anymore. He doesn’t know how to be Cor Leonis. 

The doctors confirm it. They record the time of death and begin making arrangements for his body to be moved. Cor stays rooted to the spot through the conversations, until a heavy hand lands on his shoulder. 

“Go home, Leonis.” Aleam says, voice gentle as he searches Cor’s face for something. Cor’s not sure what Aleam finds, but he manages a nod and turns to go, slipping away from Aleam’s hand. 

He crosses the room quickly, pulls the door closed behind him slowly. He begins to walk down the corridor, trying not to think, trying not to _feel,_ but he only gets a few steps when Regis and Clarus round the corner in front of him. He stops short, feeling panicky as he watches them approach him, their steps quickening. His eyes burn suddenly with unshed tears, and he has to let his mouth fall open just to be able to breathe, his throat getting tight. 

“Cor, is everything-” Regis begins, placing a hand on his shoulder, but before he can finish the question, the tears in his eyes spill over, and he sobs, clutching at Regis’ chest.

Regis doesn’t hesitate at all to wrap his arms around him, holding him close as he cries. 

Cor can feel Regis’ own tears begin to fall, dampening the shoulder of his uniform where Regis is resting his head. Distantly, Cor feels ashamed of himself. Here is Regis, learning of his father’s death, and here is Cor, crying and seeking comfort, like he’s more upset, like he should take priority. 

“I’d just-” He gasps, turning his head so it rests sideways on Regis’ shoulder. “He just… stopped. It wasn’t- it didn’t- just one second he was _fine_ and then-”

“Sshhh, it’s okay.” Regis whispers, cutting off his rambling. “It’s okay.” 

He falls silent, still holding on to Regis while his tears dry. 

* * *

He gets given two weeks’ leave.

Cor spends most of it in bed, drifting in and out of a restless sleep, still not quite believing that Mors is _gone_ , that it’s over. He hears his father up and about most days, hears the TV blaring long into the night, but he can’t bring himself to get up. It can’t be that simple. It _can’t._ There has to be a catch. 

There isn’t. 

He drags himself back to the Citadel, and for the first time in three years, he reports to the training room with the other Crownsguards. The Marshal offers him a sympathetic smile, takes him to one side and explains in a low voice that, if he needs, he can take more time off, and that there are people he can talk to, if he’s struggling. Cor thanks him mechanically, but from the look on the Marshal’s face, they both know the words were a waste of breath. Cor just isn’t the type of person to lay his feelings bare for other people to see. 

They’re only half an hour into sparring drills when Regis steps in, Clarus at his side. Cor stops what he’s doing immediately and just looks at him. He watches Regis search the room, watches the way a soft smile appears as he spots Cor. He beckons him over with one hand, and Cor goes without question, following him out of the room without even waiting for the Marshal to officially dismiss him. 

Cor can’t stop looking at the crown nestled in Regis’ hair. It’s subtle, just a glimpse of gold visible when the light hit it. Mors’ crown had been big, ostentatious, designed to be _noticed._ Clarus pulls him into a one-armed hug just outside the door, and Regis looks him over, still wearing that gentle smile. 

“How are you?” He asks, so gentle, green eyes searching Cor’s face. 

“How’re _you_?” Cor shoots back, because he doesn’t want their attention. He doesn’t want any attention, but especially not Regis’. Not right now. He wants to be left alone. 

“I’m okay.” Regis answers evenly. “Busy.” 

Cor looks away, not able to bear looking into his eyes any longer. 

“Cor, we’re going to pay respects. It’s all ready for the funeral tomorrow, so…” Clarus explains haltingly. “We thought you might want to come.” 

Cor bites his lip, wrapping his arms around himself to stave off an imaginary cold. After a moment, he nods. _Maybe it will help_ , he thinks. Maybe if he sees Regis standing by Mors’ dead body, he’ll find some way to tell them apart. Maybe he’ll find a difference to focus on, so he’ll stop seeing all the similarities in their faces. 

He knows it’s wishful thinking. 

The body is greyer than he remembers it. They’ve dressed him in his best suit.

“The one he got married in,” Regis quietly tells Clarus next to him. Cor only knows it as the suit he was wearing the night of Cor’s seventeenth birthday. He closes his eyes, turns his head to the side. 

He’d expected to feel relief. He’d expected to feel safe. He’d expected to feel victorious.

Instead, he feels empty. 

He can feel tears building in his eyes, though why he’s on the verge of crying is anyone’s guess. He sure as hell doesn’t know. 

He feels Clarus run a hand down his shoulder, trying to get his attention. Cor can’t open his eyes, can’t look at him, but he’s sure Clarus feels the way he tenses under the light touch.

“We’ll be outside, okay?” 

Cor manages to nod, and, when he’s sure they’re gone, he opens his eyes. He sucks in a deep breath, just staring at the lifeless form in front of him. 

There’s a knock at the door, then Aleam steps in. Much like that morning two weeks ago, he stands by Cor’s side, neither moving to acknowledge the other. 

“So, your nightmare ends, Leonis.” 

Aleam speaks quietly, standing stock still. 

Cor doesn’t move either, just continues forcing slow breaths from his lungs while he mulls over that sentence. He’s not sure it is. It may just be beginning. 

“So it seems.” He answers listlessly. 

Aleam hums and for a while there is silence between them. Eventually, Aleam speaks again, still not taking his eyes off the dead King. 

“Are you going to tell them?” 

Cor watches him tense in his peripheral vision. He could, Cor knows that. Knows that they’d bend over backwards to help, would be angry on his behalf, would feel all the feelings he can’t feel for himself. But then, what’s the point now? It’s over. Mors can’t hurt him from beyond the grave, so why tarnish Regis’ memories of his father? He’s dealt with this by himself for three years already, he can continue to do so. He’ll take it to his own grave, he knows that.

“No.”

“Good.” Aleam sighs, relaxing once again. 

He doesn’t deign that with a response. They both know that Cor would be believed over him, should he choose to speak out. Besides, the proof is on his body. Aleam wouldn’t stand a chance. It doesn’t change anything. Cor won’t speak, not about this. Let Aleam live out his life in peace, away from Insomnia. Let Clarus and Regis remember their fathers as decent men. 

Cor leaves not long after that, walking out without a second glance. 

_Five years later…_

Regis sighs as he rummages through the contents of the top drawer of his desk. He really should’ve known that Aulea would follow through on her threat to just ‘dump it in there, willy nilly’ if he didn’t tidy it last night. 

He reaches the bottom of the drawer, still missing the document he’s looking for. He growls inarticulately, getting angry with himself. He’s going to be late for his meeting now, and he’s only got himself to blame. He drops everything, resigned to having to start his search again, when he notices the bottom of the drawer shift. 

Frowning, Regis prods at it gently, and it shifts again. All thoughts of the document gone from his head, he picks everything out of the drawer and unceremoniously dumps it on his desk. There’s a small lip at one end of the drawer that’s been dislodged. Curious now, Regis gently knocks it back into place, which, sure enough, makes it appear flat. 

“What the…” 

He mutters to himself, pressing gently at the loose wood until it moves again. Underneath the false bottom is a brown, worn, leather-bound book. It looks familiar and it takes Regis a few minutes to place where he’s seen it before. 

It belonged to his father. Regis had seen it a couple of times on this very desk, always shut and placed to one side while they dealt with political matters. He let his fingers drag over the soft leather for a moment, debating whether or not to open it. He’s pretty sure it’s a diary, even though Mors had never seemed the type to keep one. Biting his lip, Regis sits down in the chair and flips the book open to a random page. His father’s precise handwriting is instantly recognisable, and he intends to put the diary to one side to be dealt with later when some of the words catch his eye, and he begins reading. 

_As soon as he returns from midday training, I order him to remove his shirt. He bites his lip, trying not to cry, but he does as he’s told. He always does as he’s told. I lean him forward over the desk, and he stays where he’s put like the good little boy he is. He barely even twitches, doesn’t try to look around to see what’s going on, even as I make sure he can hear me taking off my belt. I make the leather snap. He flinches, but he still doesn’t move. I caress his ass gently, then tell him to undress fully. He does it quickly, it’s almost as if he’s eager for it, like he’s willing, but then I see his eyes shimmering with tears he won’t let himself cry, and it’s a huge turn on. The first scream he lets loose as I strike him with the belt is even more of a turn on, and I keep hitting him. It’s so good, the whistle of leather through the air, the resounding smack when it hits his exposed back and ass, the red welts the buckle leaves behind. It’s like a drug, and I can’t stop myself. I keep going until I draw blood, until there are gauges in his skin like he’s been attacked by a wild creature. Only then do I drop my belt and free my dick. Only then do I flip him over, making sure to press his bleeding back into the hard surface of the desk. Only then do I fuck him. Hard and fast and deep, and he lies there and takes it. Oh, the look on his face as he tries to hold back tears is fuel on the fire, it goes straight to my dick, so I keep fucking him, using his body to chase my pleasure. I kiss him roughly, biting at his lip as my cum fills his ass, and the taste of him is exquisite._

_Scene completed: September 17th 727_

_Note: I returned to my quarters about forty minutes later and found Aleam choking the boy against the wall, having obviously beaten him to a pulp. This delighted me, so I watched for a couple of minutes, but Aleam clearly only intended to hit him, so I riled him up, deliberately antagonising him until I managed to make him do it. He laid the boy back over the desk, and fucked him thoroughly. It was such a sight, the boy lying bloody and still beneath him, lacking the strength to even remain still on the table. His body rocked forwards with every thrust Aleam made, and I got hard embarrassingly quickly. I put the boy’s mouth to good use, and ordered Aleam to hit him, which he did without hesitation. In hindsight, that was a mistake, since it made the boy vomit. Although, he did have the decency to warn me. He touched me, which he never normally does, and it was surprising enough that I stepped back just as he threw up. The blush on his cheeks as that happened was enough to get over my disgust, and so I got back in his mouth and held his head still, and as I came I made sure he couldn’t pull away. He passed out, and I watched as Aleam continued to use his limp body. As we healed him, I pointed out to Aleam that he no longer had a leg to stand on. The repulsed look on his face was more than worth having to clean up the boy’s mess._

Aghast, Regis flicks back to the first page, and holy shit did curiosity kill the cat, because even as every word he reads makes him feel sick to the stomach, he can’t put it down. 

_The boy looks so serious and smart, despite his young age. He’s a little nervous, but far too easy to manipulate. This is how I like them. Young enough that they’re obviously uncomfortable, they work out that something isn’t right, some leftover animal instinct telling them to run, but they don’t. They convince themselves that they must be imagining it, because after all, adults are safe. Adults don’t hurt them. It’s boringly easy, really, to ensure the boy’s silence while Aleam secures the room for me. And despite all the judgemental looks and snide comments he’s given me, he’s right there to stop the boy from bolting as I advance towards him. I punch him twice, and he cries out, looking at me with pained confusion. I explain to him the terms of the agreement, and what the price will be - or rather, who will pay that price - and he accepts faster than I had anticipated. While the boy is panicking over his fate, I press forwards and kiss him, and our mouths slot together with ease. I can see the moment the boy realises what’s going on. He looks delicious, so I have Aleam take him through to the bedroom. Since it’s his first day, and his first time, I keep it simple. I finish my wine slowly while Aleam has the boy strip and cuffs his wrists to the bed. The boy’s pale skin is just begging to be bruised and broken. As I take out my dick, I ask him if he’s scared. He surprises me with an honest answer, and as I spit on his exposed hole and lube myself up, I tell him that’s just how I like it. His screams are more glorious to my ears than the music of the finest orchestra. I take immeasurable pleasure from the act of destroying his innocence._

_Scene completed: March 26th 727_

Regis drops the book like it’s burning him. He can’t wrap his mind around what he’s just read. The things… if this were true… if these so-called ‘scenes’ had really happened… 

He can hardly bear to think of the consequences. His father was a rapist. 

And not only that, a child rapist. 

Gods, he hopes he’s wrong. He hopes he’s misinterpreted this somehow, or that this is just a collection of sick fantasies that were never carried out, or that he’ll wake up next to Aulea in a minute and it will all be a fucked up, twisted nightmare. 

Regis is so lost in his horror that he doesn’t register Clarus entering the room, or calling his name until his friend is right in front of him.

“Six, Regie, you look like you’ve seen a ghost!” Clarus exclaims, resting a hand on Regis’ shoulder. 

Regis jumps a mile at the sound of his voice, and wordlessly picks up the diary (because as much as he wants to believe otherwise, he just _knows_ these things happened to some poor unnamed child). Clarus takes it with a frown, and Regis watches as his friend reads the first page. 

He sees the dawning horror as Clarus understands what he’s looking at, and the sound that escapes him pretty much sums up how Regis feels. His skin is crawling. 

“Fuck,” Clarus whispers, and Regis can only solemnly agree. 

For a moment, they stay silent, both trying to come to terms with what they’ve just discovered about their fathers. 

“I don’t know what to do.” Regis admits softly. It’s not like there’s a protocol in place for uncovering irrefutable evidence that the previous King was a child rapist. 

“Fuck, Regis.” Clarus says urgently, and Regis looks to him. He’s flicking through the pages of the diary, stopping occasionally. When he meets Regis’ gaze, he has a grim expression. 

“What?” Regis sighs, resting his head in one hand. “Come on, tell me. It’s not like it can get much worse, is it?” 

He instantly regrets the comment when Clarus winces. 

“These dates…” Clarus begins, turning towards the back of the book. “They’re from-” 

He breaks off again, like he doesn’t want to even think about whatever he’s worked out. Regis frowns, dread building in his chest. 

“They’re from when Cor was his guard.” 

Regis feels the blood drain from his face. 

The worst part is, it _fits._

Cor’s sudden change in behaviour around them after he began working for Mors, which at the time they’d eventually put down to him growing up a little. Regis can remember clearly just how fucking worried he’d been about Mors lashing out at him, but he’d never imagined… 

And Cor had fooled them into believing he was fine. 

“Shit!” Regis says, clutching at the arms of the chair tightly. “Fucking hell!”

Clarus shakes his head, building anger obvious in his face as he stares down at the diary. 

“It gets worse.” 

Regis takes the diary when it’s offered numbly. 

_The boy becomes a man today. Or, he would, but I have other plans, not that he knows about them. Again, it’s childsplay, setting this up. I suppose that’s one perk of being a monarch. It’s a simple plan, really, but that doesn’t stop it being satisfying. Aleam, following my instructions lest his precious son end up my next target, has arranged for a small group of incompetent Niff sympathisers to gain entry to the Citadel and make their way to my rooms without being apprehended. The boy, duty-bound, will take them on while Aleam and I retreat to safety, except, I won’t need to. Between the three of us, Aleam has assured me, we will be able to bring them down with very little effort. Which will leave me free to turn the assault on the boy. I have told Aleam that he is free to join in, as long as I get the fatal strike. The boy may be a prodigy, but he won’t be anticipating this attack, and even then, he’s not the type to turn on his King. He has proven himself far too loyal. And so, as he lays, subdued, bleeding to death, I will continue to break his body. I want him to be in agony when I use his ass for the last time. And I intend to fuck him as the light fades from his eyes, so that the last thing on Eos he sees is me, over him, using him as I have used him these three years. When I’m done, we’ll redress his corpse, and follow the protocol for an assassination attempt, raising the alarm as we go. It will be remembered as tragic, but the boy will be praised for doing his duty at the cost of his young life. It even adds to his somewhat already legendary status, really. He disposed of the assailants singlehandedly, or so everyone will think._

_Scene completed:_

There is no date for the entry, but Regis knows what it would have been, had the gods not had other plans for his father. December 7th, 729. Cor’s eighteenth birthday. The day Mors died. 

_Thank all the gods for that!_ He thinks viciously, looking up and seeing his own fury reflected in the eyes of his Shield. Regis is about to speak, his lips curling into a snarl when the door is flung open and they both turn to glare at the interruption. 

“You know, it’s bad enough when _he’s_ late, Clarus, but when you go to find him and don’t come back, it really sets a bad example for the council.” Cor snarks at them as he makes his way further into the room. 

Regis tries to reign in his anger, or at least keep it off his face, but he’s not sure he succeeds. Cor’s steps falter as he nears them. A frown appears, and he glances wearily between the two of them. 

“What?” He asks, hesitant. “Why do you both look pissed? What’s happened?” 

“Tell me it isn't true.” Regis blurts before he can stop himself. Cor’s blue eyes snap to his face, his frown deepening. 

“What’s not true?” His voice is guarded, but his concern is obvious in his face. 

Regis hands over the diary, breathing shakily as he waits for the verdict. This is an answer he never wants to hear. 

Cor doesn’t even have to say anything.

Regis and Clarus both watch as his eyes scan over whatever page he opened the diary to. They watch as Cor inhales sharply, as his eyes widen, and his face greys. Clarus rushes forwards to steady him when Cor staggers, and for a moment, Regis thinks he’s going to pass out. The book falls from his hands, landing on the floor with a dull thud. 

“I’m okay,” Cor rasps out, but he grabs onto Clarus’ arm with one hand. _It’s like he’s reassuring himself of something_ , Regis thinks, as his eyes flicker over to Regis then skitter away around the room. _He is_ , he realises suddenly. _He’s grounding himself._

“Well, that answers that.” Regis says, cold fury engulfing him as he picks up the book. He tries not to look down, but he catches a glimpse of the entry Cor read, and a glimpse is more than enough. 

_I invite him to stay for drinks. I’ve never extended this to him before, only ever to Aleam, so he’s surprised enough that he doesn’t even think about protesting. Since he’s so young, it doesn’t take much to get him drunk. It’s adorable, the way he doesn’t know what’s going on. That he thinks he’s ill. I can hardly wait to take him as I guide him to the bedroom, carrying most of his weight, but I make myself take it slow. I make out with him, and before long he’s eager, so I go along and use plenty of lube, fingering him thoroughly, so I know it won’t hurt him tonight. It’s worth it when he comes to ask me what happened in the morning, and he has a panic attack right in front of me when I tell him he wanted me. I tell him to enjoy his day out with Regis as he leaves._

_Scene completed: December 7th-8th 728_

Regis grits his teeth together to keep from screaming. He can remember that day, he can remember leaning in close to Cor’s face and joking about him being hungover! 

Fuck, if Mors was still alive right now, he’d kill him for this! He has half a mind to go down to the tomb and fucking _destroy_ his father’s resting place, he wants to kick and claw at the marble until there’s nothing left to commemorate that vile, _twisted, psychotic, evil-_

An enraged scream and a loud bang draw Regis from his thoughts. His eyes land on Clarus, who’s upended the couch, and is making quick work of Aulea’s vases and ornaments, each one meeting its end with a violent shattering as it’s flung at the nearest wall. Regis is floored, rooted to the spot as he watches Clarus work through his anger. 

Stuttering breathing to his side draws his attention away from his Shield, and his anger immediately takes a backseat to his growing concern as he turns to look at Cor. He’s watching Clarus wreck the room, trembling. Tears roll freely down his cheeks, and that almost kills Regis. Cor _doesn’t_ cry! He’s seen Cor cry once - the day he’d… fucking hell, no wonder Cor had bawled his eyes out when Mors passed. No fucking wonder.

“Cor, you’re okay.” He says, standing between Cor and his view of the carnage Clarus is inflicting. It takes a worryingly long time for Cor’s eyes to focus on Regis, and when they do he only cries harder.

“Listen to me,” Regis begins urgently, keeping Cor’s attention on him. “You’re safe, alright? He’s dead and buried, and he cannot hurt you, not anymore. You’re safe, Cor.” 

Cor opens his mouth to respond, but no sounds come out, and he shuts it again as a fresh wave of tears begins to fall. He keeps glancing over to Clarus then back at Regis, and there’s something in his eyes, a nameless, voiceless, desperate terror that breaks Regis’ heart.

“Oh, Cor.” He says, wincing. He places a hand on each of his friend’s shoulders, hoping the physical contact will help him focus, or something. “He’s not angry with you, I promise.” 

Cor shakes his head, looking down and away from him. Even as his anger intensifies, he gently uses one hand to bring Cor’s head back up until he’s looking at him again. Cor grabs onto his wrist, and Regis lets him manoeuvre his hand until Cor’s grasping it in his own, pressed against Cor’s chest. He offers Cor a worried smile.

“He isn’t angry with you, Cor. He’s angry for you, for what happened. He’s angry that we didn’t know you were being hurt.” Regis explains gently. 

It’s all for naught, when Clarus flings a particularly large glass vase into the wall and the shattering sound makes Cor flinch violently. His legs give way, and Regis has to quickly kneel to support him. 

Regis spins around to face Clarus, glaring fiercely.

“Clarus!” He yells. Clarus pauses slightly, one hand wrapping around another ornament, his back towards them. “Stop it right now! You’re frightening him!” 

As Clarus snarls inarticulately, Regis turns back to Cor with a concerned frown. He’s about to ask what Cor needs them to do when Cor leans into him, burying his head in Regis’ shoulder. Slowly, Regis wraps his arms around him, holding him close. Cor seems to melt into the hug, a little bit of tension bleeding out of his frame. 

“You’re okay,” Regis murmurs, rubbing at Cor’s back soothingly. “You’re safe, it’s okay.” 

Clarus shifts again, and begins to stalk towards the door. 

“Clarus?” He asks, still holding on to Cor. 

“I’m gonna kill him.” Clarus growls. 

“He’s dead.” Regis frowns, watching with growing concern as Clarus draws his blade, checking the sharpness of it before he lets it go back into the armiger. 

“Mors is. My father isn’t. Not _yet_ , anyway.” Clarus mutters darkly. He storms out of the room before Regis can say anything more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in this chapter, it is discovered that Mors has a diary of "scenes" planned out, in which he wrote plans to hurt/rape Cor. Passages in the chapter are mostly things from previous chapters but written from Mors' perspective. There is one new "scene" which is never actually carried out in this fic! This involves a plan Mors had set up to abuse/rape/murder Cor on his birthday, but again, this does not happen!!!! Mors dies before the plan ever comes into fruition!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, finally completed this! Sorry to TheDarkestDandelion, I know this is well overdue. I struggled with the ending a lot and had a few different ideas of where to go, but I think I'm finally happy with this. This fic has been an absolute rollercoaster to write, so thanks to everyone who has read along, subscribed, left kudos and commented. Your support is much appreciated. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> TW for panic attacks, mentions of self-harm, anger issues and there's another TW in the end notes which is a spoiler!

The drive out of the city lasts long enough that Clarus’ rage turns into a simmering cold anger. It’s the kind of anger that can last as long as he needs it to, that will propel him towards justice without wavering, only really satisfied when the world has been set to right. It’s a dangerous anger, far more dangerous than choking hot fury that can go as swiftly as it comes. It’s an anger which tells him he is going to kill his father for this, and nothing is going to stop him - not his love for a man he thought he knew, not the thought of how sad little Gladio is going to be when he gets told his grandad is dead, not even the thought of how disappointed Regis might look at him when he returns. He’s not an idiot, and Regis isn’t fooling anyone. Clarus knows full well if Mors were still alive, they’d both be off killing their fathers right now. Mors got fucking lucky. His chest is tight, almost every muscle in his body clenched as he focuses on driving. He cannot _believe_ \- 

He cuts off his own thoughts with a sharp growl, and hits the steering wheel with the butt of his hand. 

The dull pain isn’t really enough to redirect his thoughts. He can’t believe this! His father had always seemed so _good_ . Stern, yes, but definitely not cruel! Definitely a _decent fucking human being,_ or so Clarus had thought. But he’s wrong. Completely, totally, undeniably wrong about that. And Cor, there’s no question about it. Cor’s reaction to that diary - gods, that fucking diary - couldn’t be faked. The look of complete fear on his face. Even now, remembering it, it’s making Clarus’ fury grow. 

That look doesn’t belong on Cor the Immortal. 

His honorary baby brother. His ten-years-younger, pain-in-the-backside, little shithead of a brother. Clarus can’t even begin to imagine what Cor’s been through ( _except he can, because fucking hell, the sick fuck kept a fucking diary about it_ ) and how he must be feeling right now. He’s beyond furious for Cor, for his complete failure to protect him from people he should never have had to fear in the first place. 

He grips the wheel tighter as he pulls onto the gravel driveway leading to his father’s house. He brakes more harshly than he means to, sending up a wave of gravel in his wake, but he barely pauses over it as he walks over to the house. He knocks twice, then waits, itching to find his father and run him through where he stands. 

“Lord Amicitia,” The familiar voice of his father’s butler greets him. “You have made impressive time! It’s only been twenty minutes since I got off the phone to Lady Amicitia. I do hope you were driving safely, sir.” 

Clarus frowns as he crosses the threshold. 

“You’ve spoken to my wife?” He asks, unable to keep a glare off his face as he looks around the living room. His father is nowhere to be seen. 

“Yes, my lord. I assume then your visit now is coincidental to the news? Oh, dear.” The man sighs, looking away from Clarus. 

“What news?” Clarus growls, his patience thinning quickly. 

“I am afraid your father is quite ill, my lord. The doctor has visited, and says it’s only a matter of time, there’s nothing that can be done. He said I should call his family and friends.”

 _Good!_ Clarus thinks viciously. _I hope he’s in pain!_ He tries to school his features to reply to the butler, but he can’t quite keep the fury out of his voice. 

“Where is he?” 

“His bedroom, sir. First door on the left. Sir, they said these may be his final hours!” He gestures towards the stairs, and Clarus makes his way up them without another glance. _These will definitely be his final hours if I have anything to do with it!_ It takes considerable effort not to voice the murderous thought. He barges into the room, shoving the door open with much more force than really necessary, ready to throttle the bastard for what he’d done, but he stops short on the threshold. 

The sight isn’t something Clarus is expecting, even after being told this is his father’s deathbed. He’s watched his father age these last five years, watched as his strength began to leave him and his health deteriorated. He’s seen the wrinkles begin to set in, but even so, his father looks worse than he’s ever seen him. 

The sight that greets him is pathetic. Aleam is pale, gaunt, his skin is baggy, hanging off his frame in folds. A myriad of hospital equipment is set up on the far side of the bed, and there’s a cannula clipped into his nose, feeding oxygen to him. There’s a blood pressure clip on one of Aleam’s fingers, and an IV port in his hand, although there’s nothing currently in it. All in all, he just looks… fragile. 

But so had Cor when he’d laid eyes on that diary. 

“Clarus, my boy!” Aleam wheezed. His voice is thin and reedy, as brittle as the bones in his body. “Oh, Clarus it’s so good to see you. Is little Gladio with you?” 

“No.” Clarus answered, finally stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. “No, Gladio’s not here.” 

“Oh, that’s a shame.” He replies, extending one hand painfully slowly towards Clarus. “Come, sit, my boy.” 

Clarus grits his teeth at his father’s crestfallen expression.

“Let me cut to the chase, father.” He sighs, ignoring the confused frown he gets. “Regis found a diary of Mors’ today.” 

“Oh, that.” Aleam says, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. His frown turns worried, and it only enrages Clarus more. 

“‘Oh, that’?!” He echoes. “That’s what you’ve got to say about it?!” 

“Clarus, please-”

“You bastard! You _absolute bastard!_ ” Clarus hisses, cutting off his father’s feeble plea. “You stood by while that fucked up psycho _raped_ someone I consider my brother! Then you let him manipulate you into raping him too, and as if that wasn’t enough, you were planning to _murder_ him!” 

“You don’t understand-”

“I understand that Cor was a _child_ ! He was _fifteen_ years old, you sick fuck!” He spits, venom in his tone making his father’s face crumple as he begins crying. “There is no good reason you can possibly have!” 

“I didn’t want him to hurt you!” Aleam rasps, desperation colouring his weak tone. 

Clarus shakes his head, cold fury completely overtaking him. 

“No. No! You could have had me protected. You could have sent me away out of the city while you brought it to the council’s attention. You could have _stopped it!_ ” 

“Clarus-”

“Don’t.” Clarus spits out, glaring at the tired old man in front of him. He refused to think of him as his father. “There is nothing you have to say that I want to hear. You _disgust_ me.” 

Aleam’s face drops, his devastation obvious, but he doesn’t say anything. Clarus steps around to the far side of the bed, reaching for the tube feeding into the nasal cannula. 

“What are you doing?” Aleam asks nervously, watching his every move.

“You know, when I read the things you’d done today, I wanted to come here and put my sword through your chest.” Clarus explains as he picks it up, careful not to pull it loose. He keeps hold of it in one hand, reaching for an abandoned syringe with another. 

“But the more I think about it, the more I realise that that would be far more merciful than you deserve.” He says nonchalantly, pressing the needle into the tube and letting it fill. 

“Cor _suffered_.” Clarus removes the needle, drops the oxygen tube, and turns back to his father. “And so you will suffer.” 

Aleam is eyeing the needle wearily, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. He shakes his head weakly at Clarus, but he still doesn’t speak. 

It’s just as well, Clarus does not want to hear him. 

“Dangerous things, air embolisms.” He sighs, picking up his father’s wrist and turning it so the veins are exposed. He can feel the brittle bones crack in his grip. “Sometimes, they’re okay, but other times they cause strokes, heart attacks… If they’re big enough, they can even kill you.” 

He pushes the needle through papery skin, then presses the lever. 

“What do you think? Two injections or three?” He asks, voice cold, dropping his father’s wrist and turning to repeat the process. “I think three, just to be sure.” 

He meets his father’s gaze calmly. There is silence between them as Clarus injects him again, and again.

“You’re good at keeping secrets, aren’t you? So be a good sport and keep this one.” 

Clarus replaces the syringe when he’s finished, then pats his father’s cheek, sarcasm dripping from his voice. 

“Clarus…” Aleam whispers, voice hoarse, eyes wide as he stares at Clarus. 

“There is no fate you could suffer which will truly bring justice. What you let happen to Cor - what you _did_ to Cor - I can never forgive you.” He says this almost casually as he makes his way to the door. He pauses before he leaves, turning around with a glare. “The most damage I can serve is to ensure that you die knowing that I know just what kind of a _monster_ you are, and you can be damned sure that I _hate_ you for it.” 

Then, he leaves. 

* * *

Following Clarus’ exit, Regis is stunned. His vindictive satisfaction towards Aleam’s impending fate is overruled by his growing concern for both of his closest friends. Regis has never seen Clarus so angry, and it honestly worries him. But, with Clarus gone and Regis unable to run after him, he has no choice but to focus instead on Cor.

Cor is shivering uncontrollably in his arms, his breath coming in short gasp muffled into Regis’ shoulder. He can feel fresh tears soaking through the fabric of his shirt, pressing the soft material to his skin. 

Regis doesn’t know what to do. He keeps his arms loose on Cor’s back, not wanting him to feel trapped at all. 

“Oh, Cor.” He sighs gently, turning his head so that Cor’s head is tucked under his chin. He’s devastated, not only for what happened, but because he can’t even begin to guess what Cor needs from him right now, and with Clarus gone, he’s totally alone. 

“My apologies.” Cor stutters, his face still pressed into Regis’ shoulder, his tone crumbling over the two words. “Sh-sh-it, your meeting, my apologies.”

“Wha-?” Regis wonders, before he manages to make sense of the muffled words. “Cor, no, dear. You have nothing to apologise for, okay? You’re far more important to me than some stupid meeting.” 

Cor’s sobs renew at that, his hands fisting in Regis’ shirt. Regis winces, not knowing which part of that upset his little brother, and hating that the two options are either Cor felt the need to apologise for a crime where _he’d_ been the victim, or that he couldn’t believe Regis valued him over his council meeting. To him, neither of those are reasons that Cor should be crying harder. 

“Speaking of that meeting though,” Regis says, shifting his weight slightly so he can grab his phone out of his pocket with one hand, the other still on Cor’s back. “I’d better cancel it so they’re not waiting for me all day.” 

He keeps chattering while he types out a message to the council members, hoping that it might help Cor calm down. He clicks send, and is about to drop his phone, when a number he hasn’t used in years catches his eye. 

Surely Cid won’t be pissed off at him for calling about this? 

Regis bites his lip, then considers Cor as best he can without moving. “Cor, dear, would you like me to call Cid and see if he can come here?” 

For a while there’s no reply save for his uneven breathing, but eventually he feels Cor nod tentatively. 

“Yeah?” He confirms, feeling Cor nod again, more certain this time. “Okay, hang tight little brother. Do you want me to tell him what’s going on?” 

While he waits for an answer, he pulls up the number, his thumb hovering over the call button. He’s pretty nervous about this, given that he hasn’t spoken to Cid directly since he decided to stay in Hammerhead. Their argument had been pretty spectacular, and both parties had been left hurt by it at the time. Technically, since then, it’s been resolved, with Cid conceding the fact that it would be far too draining on Regis’ life to push the wall back out, but they’ve only really spoken through Cor relaying messages. 

“I don’t know.” Cor whispers shakily. “I don’t- you weren’t supposed to know, _no one_ was supposed to know.” 

Regis shuts his eyes, pained by the admission. Had Cor’s plan really been to never tell anyone about this? It’s bad enough he’s been silent for five years - well, eight, including the three years when it was happening - but to have no one ever find out? Regis is overwhelmed by that. 

_Why_ wouldn’t he speak out about this?

“Alright,” He replies evenly. “It’s your choice, Cor. It’s up to you. I won’t tell him if you don’t want him knowing.” 

“Okay,” Cor breathes. He’s still trembling, and he’s gone awfully cold. _Shock_ , Regis thinks to himself as he hangs up an incoming call from a council member. One way or another, they’d figure out he’s busy.

“Okay, I can tell him?” He asks, rubbing his arm up and down Cor’s back to try and warm him a little. He gets another nod, so he dials. 

The first call goes to voicemail. 

_Come on, Cid._ Regis thinks, worrying at his lip as he tries again. _Cor needs you, damn it!_

This time, the call gets cut short, like Cid’s rejected it. Regis works his jaw for a moment, disbelief slowly being replaced by anger when a text pops up.

_What do you want?_

Regis refrains from answering by telling Cid to pick up his phone and find out, and instead tries calling again. 

This time, the call connects, and he’s greeted with Cid cursing him under his breath. 

_“This better be good, Reggie.”_ Cid says gruffly, clearly none too impressed with Regis’ persistence. 

“I would actually say it’s the opposite.” He replies evenly, trying to think how to approach this. Regis is all too aware of Cor, still in tears, and well within earshot of both sides of the call. 

Probably best to go straight for it.

“It’s Cor.” Regis says, cutting off whatever retort Cid had for him. “Something’s… well. Something’s happened, and-”

 _“Damint, Reggie, is he hurt?!”_ Cid demands, worry clear in his tone. 

“Not hurt, well, not-” Regis cut himself off with a sigh. “Fuck it. There’s no easy way to explain this, and it’s not really over-the-phone news, but he’s really upset - is there any chance you can come here?” 

_“For fuck’s-_ ” Cid groans, and Regis knows that tone of voice so well, he can picture Cid pinching the bridge of his nose as he says it. _“Yeah, I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”_

“It’s an hour’s drive, Cid.” Regis feels obligated to point out. He hears Cid snort in response. 

_“You think I’m gonna respect the speed limit after you’ve told me the kid’s upset?”_

Regis’ heart warms a little at that. If nothing else, they both care deeply for Cor. 

“Touché.” He replies after a moment. “Alright, see you soon.” 

_“Oh, Reggie!_ ” Cid tags on quickly. _“You can tell the kid Wesk’s coming too. He came up to visit this week, so.”_

“I’m sure he’ll be glad to see him.” Regis answers, not at all confident in his answer as he hangs up. 

With that done, Regis focuses back on Cor. 

“There, Cid and Wesk will be here soon.” He says, and is relieved when Cor nods almost instantly.

“Where’s Clarus?” Cor asks between breaths. It’s a wonder he has tears left to cry at this point. He’s still shivering, and that more than anything makes Regis decide what he needs to do. He needs to get Cor someplace he feels safe, and get him warmer. 

“He left, remember?” Regis answers distractedly, trying to think where would be best. They certainly can’t stay here. Even if there weren't glass shards everywhere courtesy of Clarus’ tantrum, this is the room where it all happened; all things considered, it hasn’t changed much. “Cor, we need to get you somewhere-” 

“No, I don’t!” Cor cuts him off with a panicked cry. “I don’t remember! I can’t - I don’t - gods - I can’t breathe!” 

He can only watch helplessly as Cor dissolves into panic. His breath seems to stick in his throat, sounding like he’s being strangled, even though there’s nothing obstructing his breathing, and yet more tears fill his eyes as he hyperventilates, his sobs wracking his whole frame. He glances up at Regis, then whimpers, suddenly letting go of him and backing away until he hits the wall. There, he brings his knees up to his chest and buries his head in them. He keeps looking at Regis every so often, checking that he’s still where he had been in the middle of the room. 

Regis’ heart breaks. 

There’s genuine fear in Cor’s eyes, and he doesn’t need to be a genius to figure out why. He looks exactly like his father, and clearly, right now, Cor is struggling to differentiate between them. 

A small part of him wonders if Cor has struggled with that before and he’s just been oblivious to it. 

He’s torn now. He can feel tears filling his own eyes as he stays kneeling in the room. On the one hand, his presence is not going to help Cor calm down, but on the other hand, he can’t leave him alone like this. 

“Cor, dear,” He tries, waiting to see if his voice makes Cor worse. 

Cor shudders, another whimper escaping him. 

Regis has to look away for a moment to regain control of his own emotions. 

“Please tell me what I can do to help.” 

His voice cracks as his own tears spill over, his plea falling on seemingly deaf ears. Of course, Cor doesn’t answer him, still struggling through his panic attack. Regis waits a while, but it doesn’t seem to be subsiding at all. He stands eventually - his heart breaking all over again when Cor flinches - and goes to his bedroom. He bundles up the duvet from the bed, careful not to let it drag on the glass-covered floor as he heads back into the main room. 

He stops a short distance from Cor, and puts his offering on the floor. 

“Cor, dear,” He says gently, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Cor looks up at him, visibly trembling. “You’re cold, dear. I think you might be in shock.” 

Cor’s gaze falls to the duvet, and he reaches for it with one hand, but makes no more effort to move. 

“Can I bring it closer for you?” Regis asks, nervous as he waits for the answer. Just how much has Cor been affected by him all these years? 

Cor sobs, but he nods. 

Regis puts it where Cor will be able to grab it, then takes several steps back. “Okay.” 

Cor drags the duvet towards himself, pulling it partly into his lap. It’s not covering him, but it will have to do for now. There’s no way Regis is going to risk making Cor feel worse by getting close to him. 

“Is me talking helping?” He asks quietly. “If not, please say so, Cor, okay? I want you to feel safe.” 

“Please,” Cor whispers shakily. “Please, I can’t breathe.” 

“Alright, Cor, you’re having a panic attack.” Regis says, trying to make his tone firm but not scary. “You can breathe, you just need to slow down a little. Can you do that?” 

Regis draws in a deep breath, then lets it out slowly through his mouth. “Like that, yeah?” 

Cor is watching him, fear still obvious in his eyes. 

“Come on, deep breaths.” He encourages, still taking exaggerated breaths. “Come on, little brother, I know you can do this.” 

Regis feels a small spark of relief when Cor starts trying to match his breaths, even if it’s really just gasping rather than actual breaths. 

A knock at the door startles both of them. Cor clutches at the duvet tighter, his breathing spinning away from him again. Regis mentally curses. 

“What?!” He snaps out, a little harsher than he intended to. 

“Your Majesty?” A voice calls through the door. “There’s two men-”

“Oh, get out the damn way!” Cid’s familiar drawl precedes another series of knocks. “Reggie!” 

With a sigh, Regis goes over and opens the door, blocking the entrance with his body. He gives Cid and Wesk a stern glare. 

“Your Majesty-” 

“Thank you, you may leave.” Regis interrupts flatly, dismissing the envoy. 

“Let us in, then!” Cid demands.

“Regis, what is going on?” Wesk asks at the same time. 

He holds up a hand, and miraculously, they both stop and wait for him to speak. 

“He’s having a panic attack right now. I can’t get him to calm down at all, so please don’t go in there angry, okay? It won’t help.” 

“Shit.” Wesk remarks. “What has caused this?” 

Regis can’t help but wince. He steps back from the door, allowing them both into the room. 

“Hell, kid.” Cid says, walking towards where Cor is still cowering, hyperventilating again. 

Concerned surprise is obvious on Wesk’s face as he takes in Cor’s state. He looks to Regis, eyebrows raised, a question on his lips, but before he can ask it, Cor lets out an awful sound. 

They both turn to find Cor desperately scrambling away from Cid, who looks beyond devastated as he watches. 

Cor’s gaze skitters over the three of them in turn, and he buries his head in his knees, bringing both arms over his head. He grabs his hair - just long enough for him to make a fist in - and _tugs_ , screaming into his body. 

“Fucking hell,” Cid whispers, so softly Regis almost misses it. He takes half a step towards Cor, his arm reaching out, but then stops himself. 

Regis’ heart pangs at the sight. All these years… guilt churns in his chest, because thinking back, there had been signs that something was bothering Cor, but when he or Clarus ever pointed out anything to him, he’d always had an answer for them, some reasonable explanation that put their worries to rest. Regis should have _known_. He should have realised, should’ve seen the patterns.

Wesk grabs his arm, pulling him out of his thoughts. 

“What the hell happened, Regis?!” He asks, eyes bright with concern. Cid also starts at the question, and walks back over to them, although he can hardly tear his eyes off Cor. 

“My father and Clarus’...” He begins, feeling his anger return as he forces the words through gritted teeth. “They raped him.” 

“They fucking what?!” Cid growls, and Regis can see the anger he feels reflected on Cid’s face.

“Mors has been dead five years. Why’s this happening now?” Wesk points out, eyes narrowed in thought as he looks between Cor and Regis. 

“I found a godsdamn diary, full of… ugh, ‘scenes’,” Regis explains, making finger quotes in the air as he borrows the word his father used to describe his sick fantasies. “They’re all dated from when Cor worked for him, and there’s a bunch he had planned that he never got to carry out because he got ill.” 

Regis lets out a shuddering breath, tears filling his eyes as he points to the book on the desk. 

“That’s why I can’t calm him down,” He explains, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “He thinks I’m _him_.” 

Wesk curses softly.

“Okay,” He sighs, rubbing at his brow. “Both of you go elsewhere for now, I’ll try and help him. There’s no reason he should mistake me for anyone else.” 

Regis nods, his heart aching with the knowledge that he can’t be of any help right now. 

“But I don’t - why’s he so scared of me?!” Cid asks, his tone bright with anger even though he keeps his voice low. 

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Wesk begins scathingly. “A middle-aged, bearded man raped him for years, and you, a middle-aged, bearded man walked right up to him when he’s quite clearly already panicking, _possibly_ to the point of dissociation!” 

Cid’s face falls in shock. Evidently the similarities hadn’t occurred to him. 

“You should try and get him out of here.” Regis says to Wesk as his friend begins to make his way to Cor. “This is - I’ve hardly even changed it.” 

He gestures towards the walls, and Wesk nods with understanding. “I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

There’s a hollow ringing sound coming from somewhere in the room and somewhere nearby, someone is screaming. Cor can barely hear _that_ over the pounding of his heart. He can feel it, beating so strongly his chest aches, and his lungs feel constricted, like they’ve been gripped in a vice. Everything’s too tight, too _close_ and pressing in on him and he can’t _breathe_ , there’s no air around him, he’s suffocating, and there’s no air, everything’s so tight, crushing him, he’s going to be _crushed_ as he _suffocates_ and he can’t even try and get out because _he’s right there, he’s right there in front of him_ and across the room and he’s going to hurt him, he’s going to hurt him because _Regis knows_ and he’ll think he told Regis but he _didn’t!_ He didn’t and now Regis is going to get hurt and Cor can’t even try and stop it or help because he’s going to die, _he’s going to die, he’s going to he’s going-_

“-at’s it, youngster, just listen to what I’m saying alright? Keep breathing nice and deep.” 

The voice is just barely audible over the buzzing static, over the distant screaming he can still hear. With startling clarity, he realises _he’s_ the one screaming. 

He manages to stop, and the rest of the room seems to rush back into focus. There’s no white noise coming from the room at all - in fact, aside from the voice, the room is near silent. He steadily becomes aware of the burning soreness in his throat - _How long had he been screaming for?_ Why _had he been screaming?_ \- and a dull pain in his head on top of the throbbing headache he can feel building. He’s freezing, his teeth chattering away inside his skull. 

Slowly, Cor forces himself to relax his grip on his hair, and lifts his head. His eyes are immediately drawn to the man sitting on the floor near him. 

“Wesk,” He rasps out, giving him a watery smile. His heart is still thrumming against his sternum, so strongly he can feel it, and he feels like he could be sick at any moment, the lingering panic making his throat feel tight.

He feels shaken to his very core, only he can’t immediately remember why. He doesn’t remember why Wesk is here, or why he panicked in the first place. 

“Hey there, youngster.” Wesk says softly, smiling back at him tentatively. Cor rolls his eyes at the much-hated nickname. “Back with me?” 

Cor tucks his chin between his knees, wrapping his arms around his legs in an attempt to stop them trembling. He feels like he’s about to shake apart. 

“Yeah,” He lets his eyes shut, breathing out for a long moment before he opens them again, looking to Wesk.

“I don’t-” Cor coughs weakly, his throat aching. “When did you get here? I thought I was with Regis.”

Wesk purses his lips, considering Cor for a minute. 

“You had a panic attack. Do you remember what upset you?” 

“I remember someone yelling, and smashing things, and they were so angry at me, I thought for sure-” 

Cor cuts himself off, breathing in raggedly while the foggy memories slot back into place. 

“Clarus was angry.” He says miserably, curling tighter into himself. “He was breaking things, and Regis… he was trying to stop me from seeing, because… because....”

Oh gods, they _know_! 

“Oh gods, no.” Cor whispers, feeling his heart rate beginning to speed up again. He looks to Wesk, eyes wide with fear. “Oh gods, no, no, no _no-_ ”

A hand grips his arm tightly, and Cor blinks his eyes open, finding Wesk closer than he had been before. 

“You listen to me, little brother.” He says, and his voice is calm, soothing, but stern enough that Cor feels compelled to obey. That’s Wesk’s _don’t-fuck-me-around_ voice, and it works miracles. 

“You are safe.” Wesk tells him, keeping direct eye contact with Cor. “I promise you, Cor. You are safe. There is no one else in this room but me and you, and I will not let anyone else in. You are perfectly safe.” 

Cor sucks in a shallow breath, eyes bright with tears. 

“They know!” He gasps. “And you know an-an-an no one was supposed- I didn’t tell _anyone_!” 

He ends up screaming, ignoring the painful way it tears at his already hoarse throat. 

Wesk squeezes his arm gently, giving him a tight smile. “We know, Cor. We found out about it, that’s different.” 

Cor can feel the residual panic building again, his heart rate skyrocketing. He didn’t want them to know, they weren’t supposed to find out! 

“Hey!” Wesk’s sharp voice grabs his attention again, and Cor looks back to him, gulping as he tries to regain control of his breathing. 

“Good, that’s good, Cor. Just keep breathing.” 

Cor nods weakly and does just that. He settles his hand over Wesk’s, keeping it pressed close to his arm. 

“Alright?” Wesk asks after a while. 

“Yeah.” He sighs, scrubbing one hand over his face, drying the remnants of his tears. “Fuck, that was awful. My apologies.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, youngster.” Wesk chides him gently. “Now, how about we get you out of this room, hmm?” 

“I should apologise…” Cor replies uncertainly. “Regis - I don’t want Regis to think-”

“What? To think that he accidentally triggered that?” 

Cor can’t help but flinch. “That I’m scared of him.” 

Wesk sighs deeply. “Are you?” 

He shakes his head, looking away. Now that his panic is ebbing away, he’s beginning to feel hot embarrassment curl through his chest, heating his cheeks. 

“Come on then,” Wesk says, standing and offering Cor a hand. Cor takes it gratefully, his legs stiff and uncooperative. “You feel up to seeing him just now, or is that gonna-”

“I’ll be fine.” Cor butts in, squaring his shoulders with a sigh. 

Wesk leaves an arm draped over his shoulders as they head towards the door. 

* * *

They find Regis and Cid in the rooms closest to Regis’. Both men look to Cor as soon as the doors open. Cor can feel a blush rise on his cheeks as he thinks about just how much of a mess he had been in front of them only a few minutes ago. 

“Kid,” Cid says, taking an aborted step towards them. 

“Hey,” Cor answers, giving Cid a small smile. Alongside the sheer embarrassment that’s now feeling, exhaustion is beginning to swamp him. “My apologies about that. I-”

“Don’t need to apologise for anything!” Regis cuts over him hotly. He’s still on the far side of the room, his arms crossed over his chest in an attempt to refrain himself from getting closer. He won’t look at Cor, but Cor can still see that his eyes are shining with unshed tears. 

“Regis,” Cor starts gently, but the rest of his words get stuck in his throat. He glances at Wesk, hoping for some kind of support, but all he gets is a small smile. 

“What?” He asks sharply. He looks furious still, and Cor has to shut his eyes and take a deep breath, reminding himself that the man in front of him is his brother, not that monster. 

“I want to apologise,” Cor whispers shakily. He clears his throat before he tries again, meeting Regis’ eyes. “I want to apologise because I don’t want you thinking that I see you like that.” 

The sound that tears from Regis’ throat makes Cor want to curl up in a ball and hide away in his guilt. 

“Regis, I don’t!” He says softly, distressed. “You’re not him, and I don’t think you’re him or get you mixed up or whatever else you might be thinking-”

“You just did!” Regis blurts out, and the sheer amount of agony and guilt in those three words makes Cor want to cry, again. “Don’t try and spare my feelings, Cor! You just did get me mixed up with him, and you just did think I was him, and you just did back away from Cid in terror-”

“In the middle of the worst panic attack I’ve ever had!” Cor yells over the top of him.

Silence follows his outburst, and it takes a moment for Cor to realise why the three of them are now staring at him, heartbreak plain on their faces. 

“Fucking hell.” He mutters, scrubbing at his face. He’s starting to get annoyed, and he’s not sure if it’s directed at himself, or at them, or both. Maybe it’s just annoyance at the world. 

“Yes, I’ve had panic attacks before, big deal.” He admits tiredly, bitterness leaking into his tone. 

“It _is_ a big deal, kid.” Cid says. “That’s why we’re upset.” 

“Well what do you want me to say?” Cor spits out. He’s frustrated at himself and the world, the panic is still ebbing in his chest, his head is pounding, and all he really wants to do is go home and sleep, maybe with the comforting pain of new cuts over his wrist. “Sorry I panicked? My apologies. Sorry you found out? My apologies. Sorry it ever happened? My apologies. Sorry I never told you? _I’m not!_ ” 

“We don’t want you to apologise for anything!” Regis exclaims, his voice bright. “None of this was your fault!” 

His voice cracks as his own tears begin to fall, and guilt hits Cor in the chest like a freight train. He crosses the short space between them and wraps his arms around Regis, hugging him tightly. 

Regis’ arms wrap around his back as he cries silently into Cor’s shoulder. Cor closes his eyes, trying to ignore the pain in his heart as he comforts his friend. They stay like that for a while.

“You were a kid!” Regis eventually grits out, drawing back from Cor. “You were just a fucking kid! I should’ve-”

“Should’ve what, Regis?” Cor asks, tiredly, but not unkindly. “I went out of my way to make sure you and Clarus didn’t think anything was wrong. So no, you really shouldn’t have noticed, or realised, or anything. I didn’t want you to know what was going on.” 

_“Why?”_

The pained question doesn’t come from Regis, and both he and Cor turn to look at Cid. The mechanic is grimacing, his tanned face wrinkled in concern. There’s so much pain in his expression that Cor has to look away. He steps away from Regis, away from all of them, his arms crossed. He can’t look at them. 

He still feels filthy, Mors’ memory like a permanent stain on his skin, on his mind, on his soul. 

“After he died? I didn’t want to destroy yours and Clarus’ memories of your fathers, not when it was all over anyway. Just didn’t seem worth it.” Cor mumbles, his back to them, not taking his eyes off the floor. 

“At the time?” He starts, but he stops to swallow around the lump in his throat. He turns to look at Regis, and he can’t keep the pain off his face. Now, being a little older and with hindsight, he knows he’d never had to suffer through it. If he’d told Clarus, or Regis, or hell, if he’d told Cid, it would have been taken care of. Mors would have been sent to hell in a handbasket. 

He meets Regis’ worried gaze. There are yet more tears in his eyes, and when he breathes out his lips tremble.

“He told me if I said anything to anyone that he’d hurt you the way he hurt me.” 

Cor’s voice crumbles as the tears overflow, and he looks away from Regis, unable to bear the stricken expression on his brother’s face. Determined not to break down again, Cor wipes his eyes after a moment, and laughs derisively through his tears. “And I was dumb enough to believe him.” 

He finds himself pulled into the embraces of his three brothers, and for once in his life, he doesn’t find it stifling and want to pull away. So he stays. He clings on to them and lets his tears fall. 

Everything he went through with Mors, the pain, the fear, the sheer fucking misery he now realises was depression, all of it, seems a thousand miles away while he’s wrapped up in their arms. None of them speak, and Cor is grateful, because really, there’s nothing they can say that makes it better. No words are going to take the pain away, or make Cor any less scarred. He holds on tight to his brothers, accepting their comfort the only way they can give it to him, the only way that makes even the slightest bit of difference.

When they finally break apart, Cor feels a lot lighter. A massive weight has lifted, one that Cor thought had lifted the day Mors died. Now it’s definitely gone, he realises he’d still been carrying it. He gives his brothers a watery smile, pulling away from them, but not going far. Being able to tell someone, having someone know what happened, has brought him more relief than he ever realised it would, and now one secret has gone, there’s room for more guilt over the other. And he wants that gone too.

“While we’re talking about this…” Cor trails off, not sure exactly how to explain to them. If he thinks about saying it all out loud, it sounds stupid, and Cor’s not sure they’ll truly understand what drove him to this, and he wants them to, because he wants to be told that it’s all okay. 

He wants to be forgiven.

Cor doesn’t realise he’s been silently picking at the cuff of his jacket sleeve until Wesk places a hand on his shoulder. 

“What is it?” 

Cor looks up at the three of them, concern etched in all their faces. How had he ever not realised that they would’ve helped him? 

“I, um. Just… you should know…” He trails off again, unable to find the words. There are no words, so instead Cor just tugs his shirt sleeve up slowly, revealing the thin scars littered up the inside of his arm. Some of them are years old, white and faded. Some of them are days old, red and angry against his pale skin. 

Cid inhales sharply, Regis’ hands fly to his mouth, devastated all over again at the sight. Wesk closes his eyes, expression pained as he exhales slowly. 

Cor’s so wrapped up watching their reactions, that no one notices Clarus standing in the doorway, not until he speaks. 

“You told me it was a training accident.” He says slowly, eyes fixed on Cor’s exposed forearm. Cor and the others jump, turning to look at him with surprise. His voice is dangerously low, nearing a growl. Clarus slowly looks up and meets Cor’s gaze. “You sat there, and you looked me in the eye, and told me it was a training accident.” 

“I didn’t lie to you, Clarus.” Cor says quietly, not looking away from the Shield. “The first one was genuinely an accident. It was also the first thing that made me _feel_ something in over a year.” 

“And I told you, if anything was happening, you could talk to us.” Clarus replies, shutting the door behind him and walking over to the rest of them. 

“I know.” Cor sighs. “And I should’ve. I should’ve realised that he didn’t have the power to actually hurt you and Regis. But I didn’t, okay? I didn’t realise, and I wasn’t prepared to risk you two going through the same shit that I did, so I kept quiet!

“My head was messed up, more than I can put into words.” He admits, glancing between his friends. “Most days the only thing that seemed important enough to get out of bed for was making sure he had no excuse to hurt you instead of me. Sometimes that was the only reason I had not to just cut a little deeper and fall asleep!” 

Cor can’t find words to explain it properly to them. The numbness, the surety that he wouldn’t even be missed, the desperate longing for it all to stop, for the world to go away, the sheer loneliness…

There will never be words for that. 

“I don’t know which parts of the diary you read, but, on my birthday… my seventeenth -” Cor cuts himself off, breathing deeply for a moment as he becomes overwhelmed with the few memories of that night he does have. 

“He got you drunk.” Regis says quietly. 

Cor nods. “Yeah, and he got me willing. That… I wanted - I was already in such a shitty place, that I convinced myself that it wasn’t… that it was my fault. That somehow, I'd invited it all along.” 

“No, Cor.” Regis answers solemnly. “He got you drunk.” 

“I know, I know that now.” Cor waves him off. “I just - that’s how bad my head was. Even without the threat of hurting you, I couldn’t go to you guys. How could I _possibly_ justify telling someone what was happening like it was a bad thing, when I had even myself convinced I’d wanted it to happen in the first place?” 

Cor shakes his head, yanking his sleeve back down over the cuts. “It doesn’t matter now, anyway. It’s over.” 

“Yes, it is.” Clarus sighs, glancing down at his hands before looking back up at his friends with a grim smile. 

“Where’ve you been?” Cid asks Clarus, with just a hint of annoyance. Clarus gives him a perplexed look and goes to answer, but before he can, Regis cuts in. 

“I sent him away. He was angry, and it was scaring Cor.” His tone is firm, leaving no room for arguments. 

Cor, unfortunately, isn’t stupid. He knows full well that Clarus probably just paid a visit to his father to exact some kind of revenge. He’s only surprised that he lost that much time in his panic, but he knows he must’ve, because Cid and Wesk had managed to get here as well. 

“Is that gonna be traced back to you?” He asks dully. He doesn’t know how to feel about Clarus murdering for him. He just doesn’t think he’s worth taking a life for. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Clarus replies airily. “I had a nice chat with my father and came back.” 

Cor scoffs, but he lets it go. He doesn’t particularly want to know the details anyway. 

“Is this over, Cor?” Wesk asks knowingly, looking at Cor. 

“Yep.” Cor says, trying not to scowl.

“Because some of those look fresh.” Wesk continues, ignoring Cor’s souring mood. 

“It’s fine, Wesk.” He sighs, rubbing at his arm self-consciously. 

“Uh huh.”

Regis places a hand on his shoulder, drawing Cor’s attention to him. He squeezes Cor’s shoulder lightly, giving him an understanding smile. “It’s okay if you’re not okay. Please don’t feel like you have to pretend for us.” 

“I’m fine, really. It’s just, there are odd days when I don’t feel anything so I...” Cor mumbles, unable to look at his friends. As much as he knows he needed to tell them, the sympathetic looks he’s getting make him feel like he felt when it was happening, like he’s horrible, pathetic, disgusting, and not worth the air he’s breathing. The attention is making his heart thud painfully against his sternum, his stomach feels like it’s tied up in knots. 

“Yeah, you should really talk to someone about that.” Wesk says with a sigh, his face twisting unhappily.

“No.” Cor answers quickly. “I don’t - I’d just be taking that help away from someone who needs it.” 

“You need it, you absolute-” Cid begins, fuming, only to be cut off. 

“He doesn’t have to.” Clarus says quietly. He doesn’t look up from the floor even as he feels all their eyes fall on him. Now he’s taken out the cold rage on his father, he’s becoming overwhelmed with guilt. He’d sworn he’d look out for Cor, and keep him safe, even if at the time thirteen-year-old Cor had insisted he didn’t need it. He’d failed, and Cor’s still paying the price for that failure. 

“I suppose you’re right.” Regis sighs. “That doesn’t mean you should bottle it all up, Cor. And it doesn’t change the fact that it would help you to talk to someone, okay? But it’s your choice. And we’ll do everything to support you no matter what you choose.” 

Cor smiles gratefully, mumbling out a thanks.

He feels lighter than he has in years, and when Regis pulls him in for another hug, he goes willingly, and unashamedly clings to his brothers.

* * * 

That night, Clarus has just settled down to dinner, with Gladio in his highchair and his wife Lily sitting across from him when the phone rings. Clarus makes no move towards it, so Lily leaves with a sigh. 

He knows what it’s about when Lily rejoins them hesitantly, ignoring Gladio’s gleeful greeting in favour of resting a hand on his shoulder gently. 

“Clarus, darling,” She says, and he wants to laugh darkly at the sadness in her tone. “Your father… I’m afraid he’s passed away.” 

Clarus sniffs once, weirdly surprised to find himself feeling indifferent, his earlier vindication completely erased. 

“How?” He asks quietly. 

“They’re saying it was a heart attack.” She pauses, watching his non-reaction with a concerned frown. “Darling, are you alright?” 

“Yes, I’m fine.” He says, mustering a smile. 

That is the last time he ever speaks of his father. 

* * * 

Days slowly turn into weeks and months and years, and with the help and understanding of his friends (and eventually, after much deliberation, a counsellor he can text anonymously), Cor manages to get back to some semblance of normal. 

He doesn’t even really realise how much better he’s been doing until one day when he’s showering, and every single scar on his arm is white and faded. 

Cor smiles, and as soon as he gets into work, he finds Regis and Clarus and hugs them both tightly. They’re surprised, but they’re quick to return the gesture. 

“Thank you.” He breathes, unbelievably grateful for them. He’s never said those words so sincerely before in his life. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to explain just how much they mean to him, and how important they’ve become in his life, that since day one they’ve only ever made his life better. So he tries to show them in just those two words, even though they’ll never do justice to everything he’s trying to encompass. _“Thank you.”_

“Um, you’re welcome, Cor.” Regis answers, watching with a bemused smile as Cor pulls away from them. “What exactly are you thanking us for?” 

Cor smiles brightly at him. “Everything.” 

“Cor?” Clarus asks as Cor begins to walk away. “Are you alright?” 

“Never been better.” Cor grins, glancing over his shoulder at their pleased - if confused - expressions. When he reaches the door, he stops, fixing them both with a serious look. “And I mean it. I’ve never been better.” 

With that, Cor leaves them in the council room, closes the door behind him, and goes about his day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for murder, and needle usage


End file.
